


Not Always Folly

by HMGfanfic



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Jane Austen Fusion, Alternate Universe - Romantic Comedy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Character Study, Eliot POV, Eliot's Canonical Biphobia, F/F, Feels, Fluff & Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Endings For All, M/M, Mutual Pining, No Beast, Quentin is alive and well in this story sorry to be so sexist, Sexual Content, Tropes, it's still a rom-com technically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-08-10 04:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 262,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20129059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMGfanfic/pseuds/HMGfanfic
Summary: Eliot Waugh is the Prince of Brakebills University, living without a care in the world. That is, until his platonic soulmate finds love, thanks to his definitely-not-unintentional matchmaking. It was a big change, but all’s well that ends well and he’s happy for Margo and Julia. You know. Mostly.But no one likes a renowned hedonist who focuses on his inner maudlin blah. So instead, Eliot opts to invest his energy into taking a new girl under his wing. She's dorky, intense, fresh off a year-long sojourn at Brakebills South... and in desperate need of fun.What a lucky young lady that Alice Quinn is.(Or: Unabashedly Queer “Emma,” at Brakebills.)**Complete**





	1. Prologue: No Lasting Blunder

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally going to tackle more angst and feels next. Then SDCC happened.
> 
> If “Something Good” came from heartache, the impetus for this daiquiri of a [very loose*] Jane Austen AU is pure rage. Insofar as I’m serving it up to throw in the showrunners’ ~whimsical~ faces, mmkay?
> 
> So here be: Tropey nonsense! Fun! Plot hand-waving! Literary references! Prince of Brakebills aesthetics! Hijinks! Welters! Sarcastic and sweetly pining Q! Slightly less dickish El! Delicate and fierce and joyful Alice! Lots of party scenes! Encanto Oculto! Ramped up WLW! Happiness! Glitter! The worthiness of goofy love stories starring queer characters that don’t end in unnecessary abject trauma! Some feels too because who am I kidding! Wealth! (*Eliot luxuriates onto the floor*)
> 
> Also, pretty much every character featured here is queer, even if not canonically so. I’m taking the modified Ruth Bader Ginsberg view that there will be enough queer characters on any given TV show when every single character is queer. Because so many times there’s been all heterosexual characters “and nobody’s ever raised a question about that.” The end.
> 
> I think that about covers it. Cool beans.
> 
> <3
> 
> [Rated M for Eliot.]
> 
> [*Seriously, I can't stress how loose, guys. It's less faithful than Clueless.]
> 
> ***
> 
> A note from future HMGfanfic, for anyone starting the story now: ... There is some angst & feels in the later chapters, because the story evolved. And by "some," I mean "a significant amount." I literally can't help myself. To be clear, it is still a rom-com in structure and it still more or less follows Emma and still has a *super* happy ending for everyone, but this is a [too-late for most readers] fair warning for you, lovely new potential reader.

** _Brakebills University, September 2015  
_ ** **(One Year Prior to Our Fabulous Story)**

* * *

Eliot Waugh hated three things: Todd, “Soak Up the Sun” by Sheryl Crow, and fucking _Welters. _

There was no rational reason he should be in the large stadium on a bright Sunday morning. By all measures, Eliot _should_ have been tucked into his luxurious duvet while some fey little first year sucked his dick. Instead, his head throbbed as drums pounded a shrieking and ominous beat. The crowd was hushed and the uniformed players were tense with anxious anticipation. It was like they were all shipping off to ‘Nam or some shit, rather than playing a tedious game with no discernible point or inherent fun. 

With a harsh grip of frustration, Eliot hid his eyes behind his Ray-Bans, groaning as loud as he could, desperate for the cigarette behind his ear. But before he could resign himself to his hellish fate and sink into mindless oblivion, sharp red fingernails dug into his forearm. He startled right before his sunglasses ripped from off the bridge of his nose.

“Rude,” Eliot said, less than a murmur. He glared down at the intruder without any heat. The tiny woman who glared back up at him—with all the heat of a nuclear reactor—was sex and poison personified. He loved her more than magic, more than blow jobs, more than champagne.

But she really was rude. 

“Get your shit together,” Margo spat out, pinching him once again for good measure. She thrust his sunglasses back at him. “Are you actually fucking hungover right now? Goddamn lightweight.”

“Not from alcohol,” Eliot said, gruff. He perched the black glasses in front of his tired eyes once again. “You try smoking the venom of a tiger snake and then tell me how much you want to play stupid Magic Chess the next morning."

“It’s not chess and _you’re _stupid.”

“You’re stupid.”

Margo silenced him with another glare, right as the Dean concluded his opening remarks. _Blah blah time-honored tradition the best and fucking brightest whatever blah_. Then the Knowledge team stepped forward, bright blue outfits ill-fitted and sad. Eliot recognized all of them. They were nerds. 

Knowledgers were good at determining the correct formations, but they sucked at the actual competition part. Which was why Margo’s smile was so particularly smug that horrible bright morning; the Physical Kids’ team had it in the bag. She was happy about that because she gave a shit for some goddamn reason. So Eliot mustered up as much enthusiasm as his screaming and clanking brain would allow.

All for his Bambi. 

…Honestly, it still wasn’t much. He really didn’t care about fucking Welters.

But just as the game was about to start in earnest and bring them all closer to sweet release and his duvet, Margo’s brassy voice rang out, clear and true and pissed.

“Wait, wait, wait the fuck up. Who the shit is that?”

Eliot blinked, his eyelids heavy. But sure enough, standing dead center of the other team was a new player. Eliot didn’t recognize her. Surprising, since he knew everyone worth knowing. 

He discerned her appearance quickly and efficiently, as he always did. She was tiny. Even tinier than Margo, barely over five feet. She had long brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail and she was pretty, in a basic kind of way. The one thing she really had going for her was the tailoring of her uniform, which was cropped above her stomach, pants tight like leggings. Cute. Sporty. 

Margo didn’t give a shit about any of that though. “You can’t bring in ringers, assholes.”

“I’m Julia,” the girl said, with a tiny Renaissance painting smile. “I’m not a ringer. I’m a first year.”

Kelsey the Knowledge Captain (huge fucking nerd) shrugged, “She got her discipline early. We didn’t think you’d care if we let her try out the ropes.”

Margo snorted. They were right. She wasn’t concerned about a first year.

“I can step out, if that would make you more comfortable?” Julia offered, jutting her thumb towards the crowd. But Margo simply waved her hand and smiled, simpering and mocking.

“It’s fine, honey,” she said. “I’m sure you’ll learn a lot. Sorry in advance for knocking your little team out early.”

Margo blew the new girl a kiss, before turning around and forgetting all about her. At the same time, Julia shrugged and her lips quirked up.

“Great,” she said, eyes sparking. “May the best team win.”

* * *

For the second time, New Bitch Julia took three squares at once and Margo was completely losing her shit.

“_I said no fucking ringers_,” Margo snarled, growled, screamed. Her hands were buried against her scalp, tugging and pulling at the perfect curls until they were a mess of frizz. Eliot tried to hand her a surreptitious spritz of serum, but she just pushed him away. Rude.

“So you know in Harry Potter?” Julia said, tossing the silver globe back and forth between her hands with a shit-eating grin. “How Harry was made Seeker right off the bat and blew everyone’s minds? I never thought it would be so relatable."

“What’s a Seeker?” Eliot asked Margo, who was incandescent and pacing. “Wait, there’s Welters in Harry Potter?”

“Throw the goddamn globe,” Margo shot out at the snarky first year, ignoring Eliot. Rude. “And if you’re fucking cheating somehow, I will straight murder you. No flourish. Pure death. Mark my words, you fucking twat.”

“Aw, honey buns,” Julia said with a tinkling laugh, the tip of her pink tongue between her teeth. “And here I thought we were bonding over our mutual love of the game.”

She blew Margo a kiss, exactly mirroring the one from earlier. Eliot snorted.

“She’s got your number, Bambi,” he said, eyebrows waggling. 

“I’m numberless, dickhead,” Margo said, angry over her shoulder. She refocused on the game, hands on her skirted hips. “Throw the fucking globe. Now.”

With a smirk, Julia finally did throw the globe... and it landed on the infamous bitch of a black middle square. She hissed through her teeth, frozen. Margo let out a tiny huff of relieved breath and relaxed. Based on historical precedent, the game was basically over and the Physical Kids’ were back in the advantage.

But the first year player seemed to be a tenacious sort, as she narrowed her eyes and stepped forward. She was determined, considering and focused.

“Go Julia!” A deep feminine voice called from the crowd through the tense silence. “Kick their ass!”

Eliot followed the voice up to the third row. There, a woman with dark curly hair—big and bouncy, in a severe side part—lounged with her arms back against the next row of bleachers. She made a loud whooping sound and laughed, before glancing to her left. The space beside her was occupied by a pair of untied Converses and a black hoodie, overtop a boy with long mouse-brown hair. 

He was reading a book.

The woman elbowed the kid hard and he jumped out of his skin. She ticked her head towards the tournament and Julia, in particular. The boy squirreled back into his neck and raised his hand in a tiny little cheer, reluctant as all hell. Then he averted his eyes and buried his nose right back into the pages, scooting away from Eighties Hair.

Eliot smiled. What the fuck?

But Margo always had a sixth sense for when Eliot was distracted by a cute boy and she slammed her wedges down onto his white tennis shoes. Welters was literally the only time he wore something so informal. Yet another reason why it was the fucking worst, the fucking worst, _the fucking worst_. Still, Margo wasn’t fucking around and he sighed, adjusting his sunglasses as he waited for the new girl to completely embarrass herself.

Meanwhile, Julia’s eyes had also drifted to the boy in the crowd and she was studying him with a mischievous twinkle. He didn’t notice at all, on account of having his head stuck deep into the book. That didn’t last long though. The tiny sprite of a Knowledge thing used simple telekinesis to whip the book out of the kid’s hands and catapult it down to the square.

Which was—fine. Simplistic. Eliot could have done the same move in his sleep, so there was no way it was going to get more than half a square at best.

(Full disclosure: Eliot wasn’t sure if taking half squares was actually a thing in Welters. One time he’d asked Margo and she’d gaped at him, called him an idiot, and changed the subject. So.)

Upon a belated realization that his book was now part of the show, the kid’s cheeks turned a delectable shade of red. He crossed his arms in front of his chest, grumpy and crouched. His hair fell in front of his face and he set his jaw—a very, very nice jaw, Eliot noted—and made a loud harumphing sound.

Julia blew a raspberry at him and focused ahead. She took three short steps toward the black square, her eyes closed. She muttered under her breath and brought her hands together, flat and prayerful. Her fingers moved swiftly, beautifully. A tiny spark lit in Eliot’s gut as he watched her prepare to cast. Her magic was primal and stunning. 

A wave of humidity coursed outward from her palms. All the pages of the book flew out in a spiral, enveloping the hardcover shell in a frenzy. The movement sunk deep into the ground and the board quaked, cracking open with golden light. 

From the center of the black square, white stones started to form, stacking one on top of the other. The stones grew and grew, rising into the air like a fortified tower. Criss-cross patterns of shining marble grew from nothing, twirling into barbicans. Diamonds twinkled above, spinning and refracting light all around. The newly formed palace shimmered with pure magic. The sky above them dimmed into night and two moons shone above.

Eliot’s throat was tight with a bittersweet nostalgia. Déjà vu, he supposed. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he glanced upward to seek out the boy in the crowd. And for reasons he _really_ didn’t understand, he felt heartened and almost vindicated that the kid’s mouth was open, bewildered and stunned, and that his eyes were glowing with a layer of unshed tears. Eliot’s stomach swooped with something unfamiliar and ancient all at once, heart fluttering in the still, precious moment.

He blinked and shook his head, turning away. 

He was clearly still a little fucking buzzed.

In the end, it wasn’t a surprise when Julia’s spell took the final two squares without issue. The drums announced the win. But the entire room remained quiet in the dual moonlight. Mesmerized.

Of course, Bambi was the one who broke the silence.

“Is—is that Castle Whitespire?” Margo asked, swallowing. 

She caught eyes with Julia, who grinned and nodded, bright as anything. Margo’s hand twitched at her side, almost imperceptible. The ethereal haze over the dreamlike castle was gentle and soft, as though the auditorium breathed in unison. Even Margo’s lips melted into an uptick of wonder.

Their eyes met again, something unspoken passing between the two women. Eliot’s chest tugged toward their moment, unbidden and inescapable. Then Julia fluttered her eyelashes down and silently moved her hands in an intricate pattern. As she did, the whole world was still undisturbed, still at peace.

She breathed in.

The castle disappeared. 

...And it was immediately replaced by gleaming strobe lights and a buoyant and catchy beat, echoing through the stadium at full volume.

** _PARTY PEOPLE!_ **

Julia popped her gaze right back up, wide and mocking. Her arms flew up high over her head and she twisted her tiny hips, dancing and bopping all over. She waved her hands victorious through the air, high-fiving each of her classmates and even letting Kelsey smack her ass. The whole team erupted into loud whooping sounds, jumping up and down in celebration.

As the Knowledge Kids danced raucously, Margo hardened into stone. Her brown eyes blazed lightning gold and fury. Her slender jawline trembled along with her fists. She stormed toward Eliot, knocking her shoulder into him like the loss was somehow his fault. 

_Rude._

Julia pumped her arms in and out in wide circles from her chest in a classic victory dance. She waggled her flat butt like it was going out of style. The dark haired woman from before had jumped down to the field and was hip-bumping Julia with a big wide grin under red lips. And Margo was still shaking next to him, her molars grinding like a fork caught in a garbage disposal.

“Whoomp, there it is!” Julia yelled without grace but all joy, as she jumped up and down. She bobbed her head back and forth, snapping her fingers right at Margo. “Whoomp, there it is!”

But like everything to do with Welters, Eliot didn’t really care about any of that. 

Instead, his eyes slid back to the boy in the bleachers. He laughed when he saw that he had managed to bunch himself all the way down between the stacks, knees near his mouth and his shoulders up to his cheeks. _Oh my god_, the kid silently mouthed to no one, as Julia kept hollering smack talk at Margo as loudly as she could, twixt doing The Robot. 

But Julia didn’t let the nameless boy get away with it for long, as she ran over to him and grabbed his hand. She wrapped an arm around him and spoke low in his ear, before laughing at something he said and shoving his shoulder for good measure. Then, gathering her things and swaggering as much as any nerd could, Julia made brief eye contact with Eliot and then Margo, who was still pacing.

“Good game, suckahs,” Julia yelled over to them with a wink and a corny sign of the horns. Her other arm was still casually draped around the boy from the crowd, whose cheeks were in turn still red in secondhand embarrassment. “Don’t sleep on it next time.”

Ugh. Next time? Fuck a _next time_. He was done with Welters for at least a goddamn year.

“Next time?” Eliot asked aloud, lightly. “Go fuck yourself with that drudgery.”

He rubbed his aching temples, gritting his teeth against the pain. He needed to find Josh Hoberman. Or an ibuprofen and some hair of the dog. Old school shit.

“If you can’t take the heat, get outta the kitchen,” Julia shouted (like, fucking _shouted_, ow) and laughed again, giving the boy under her arm a noogie. He looked unamused. Eliot couldn’t blame him.

Eliot held his hands out in a blithe _What can you do? _“Gladly. Enjoy your victory pretzels and soda, or whatever it is you Knowledge Kids do.”

“Wait, did you even play, man?” The black haired woman stopped and scoffed at Eliot. “Seemed like you were there to stand around and look pretty.”

Eliot touched his hand to his chest, clicking his tongue once. “Thank you.”

She furrowed her brow. “Wasn’t a—“

“Enough chit-chat, assholes,” Margo said, cutting Eighties Hair off. She gave them all the finger with an extra emphasis towards Julia. “I know your tricks now, so enjoy your illegitimate win while you can. Buh-bye.”

“See you around, Margo,” Julia said with a tiny grin. Margo hadn't technically introduced herself, Eliot noted. But really, everyone knew who she was. So the pointed name drop wasn't surprising, even if it was a little...interesting.

From behind his sunglasses, Eliot watched Julia pull the silent boy’s head closer into her cheek. “And you owe me a victory drink, mister. Since you didn’t even watch the fucking game.”

“I watched parts of it,” he protested. His voice was soft, low, baritone pitched. He was also lying.

Julia knew it too. “Mhmm. Which parts?”

“Uh. The parts where you played, like, really well?” The kid almost smirked. “So impressive, Jules. You’re a natural.”

“You’re a dick.”

“Fine with that,” he said, flipping the back of her ponytail into her face. She spat the hairs out of her mouth, tongue dipping to her chin. “So can I have my book back or what?”

Julia laughed, patting his cheek. “Oh. Yeah, no. That’s gone.”

“Fucking seriously?” The kid was actually mad. “_Julia_.”

Eliot couldn’t hear her gleeful and teasing response though, because they were walking out of the stadium, out of range. And he wasn’t even aware that he was staring off after them, until he felt Margo’s weight shift against him, her cute little body snuggling into his torso.

She was staring too.

“Jesus, have you ever seen a more obnoxious bitch?” Margo asked, like her pupils weren’t as wide and black as a moonless midnight. Eliot patted her arm.

“Let’s go get drunk until we forget all about this stupid game,” he offered gently. 

And he did her the kindness of neglecting to mention that it was clear the real game may have only just begun.

* * *

Fate intervened a week later. 

Julia was a tough cookie to track down, in spite of Eliot’s expert reconnaissance skills. She didn’t seem to attend any important parties and her class schedule was erratic. At least, none of her afternoon classes lined up with Eliot’s. And what, was he supposed to get up at nine in the fucking morning and be seen on the quad by one the professors he regularly dodged? So Margo could get laid? Who the fuck was he, Joan of Arc?

But it turned out, there was another and actually much more interesting conduit at his disposal.

Before the lightbulb went off, Eliot slumped his way out of his terrible Horomancy elective. He perched against a tall tree, cigarette in hand. He offered brief head nods to a few of his classmates—ones from parties, or random fucks, or drug deals, or whatever—but kept to himself, letting the smoke and nicotine wash over his too-loud mind. 

Quiet and Eliot were normally a dangerous combination. But noise could be claustrophobic too, in a different, more insidious way. He’d learned early in his life how to trade one evil for the other, in any given moment, to aid in that constant, futile reach for equilibrium. Smoking helped.

But what never helped was goddamn Todd.

“So because of the spell, she kept mixing up the word Monday with the word Tuesday. Every Monday she’d always be like, _It’s Tuesday_,” the grating voice carried from the other side of the tree trunk, honking with unearned laughter. “And everyone would be like, _No, Shelly, it’s Monday._ And she’d be like, _That’s what I just said. It’s Tuesday._ And everyone would be like, _No, Shelly_—“

“Um,” a much softer, newly familiar voice responded. “That’s great. I mean, it’s, uh, interesting? Or it’s funny. I guess. But again, my dorm’s being cleaned so can you point me to the nearest bathroom or—?”

The grin that overtook Eliot’s face was wider than the sky.

He put out his cigarette and swooped around the tree, grabbing the crook of the boy’s elbow without a word. The kid yelped and stumbled over his own shoes. But Eliot kept a tight grip and tugged him into a fast lockstep. The first year’s eyes went wide and he darted his gaze behind him, to the blithely waving Todd.

“Hope you find a bathroom!” Todd yelled. The kid kept blinking and Eliot huffed out a laugh. He couldn’t have orchestrated it better himself. 

“This,” Eliot said with no room for argument, walking ahead, “is the interruption you’ve been waiting for.”

“Um. Hey. Um,” the boy said, darting his eyes everywhere and anywhere now, but not pulling out of Eliot’s grasp. “Who—who are you?”

Eliot grinned all the more, turning his gaze forward and pulling them around the corner toward the Cottage. “I’m Eliot.”

“Oh,” the first year said, dumbfounded. But then he relaxed and complied, like he knew it wasn’t worth the effort to protest. Smart man. “I’m, um, I’m Quentin.”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, Quentin,” Eliot said, without glancing backwards. “Let’s chat, okay?”

“Uh, okay.”

And that was that. 

* * *

Eliot took great pride in his painstaking party planning. He also took great pride in throwing _painstaking _out the window as soon as the party crested into ecstasy, whether by pills, magic, sex, or metaphor. And as usual, the current party was perfect. 

Undulating between the writhing Margo and a tall, nameless second-year, the pounding music flowed through the Physical Kids’ Cottage in surging beats, carrying their dancing forward and free. Margo’s hair flew about in slow motion, the golden glints of her highlights reflecting in dizzying patterns under the enchanted lights and her painted red lips parted in a blissed out trance. The man behind him—Ben or William or whichever boring Anglo-Saxon name—kept his grip firmly on Eliot’s ass and the drinks and the drugs and the magic would keep them all upright, long into the still infant night.

The Cottage was pitch dark, except for the enchanted spinning glow sticks, and the shining splattered paint thrown in spiraling joy by the increasingly fucked up partygoers. It was a risk to expose the Cottage to black light, certainly, but that’s why one had a diligent clean up crew of first years at their disposal. 

Eliot’s white suit and glowing turquoise drink sang out bright into the purple-dark room. He maneuvered his way through the heady atmosphere, grabbing sips of drinks and tongue-kisses with every step. He was in his element, thrilled and electric in the adoration, the careful planning, and the unexpected falling apart in the heat of debauchery. Standing at the base of the staircase, Eliot leaned one elbow against the bannister and breathed in his success.

And it only got better, he realized as the front door opened and a recently familiar figure slouched its way into the entry, awed and awkward as ever. Beside him was Julia the Hot Knowledge Girl, as promised.

“Quentin!” Eliot tipsily bubbled out, reaching his long arm over the bobbing heads of the otherwise nameless crowd. He landed his palm right on his hunched shoulder. “You’re here! Let’s get you nice and drunk.”

“Oh, uh, okay,” Quentin said, his teeth glowing faint with his hesitant smile. Eliot tugged him in closer to his chest. He handed Quentin a bright purple drink. “Is this—how is this different than what I had earlier?”

Eliot had plied his cooperation with several Signature Drinks earlier that day. It had worked flawlessly, as always.

“It’s the same,” Eliot said, grabbing his own from one of the floating trays. “It’s a glamour. Bottom’s up, new friend.”

“Cheers,” Quentin said, humming with gentle excitement. Briefly, he turned back to his friend, but she had already disappeared into the crowd. He twitched his lips once and shrugged up at Eliot. Her absence was a tragedy, really.

So left alone together, they drank and walked around, while Eliot explained the ins and outs to the quiet first year. He was an excellent listener and so Eliot liked him more and more with each silent moment. After doing a round, he brought Quentin over to the bar—still tucked under his arm—so they could do a few glitter tequila shots before painting the walls.

“Uh, Julia’s here too,” Quentin said. Eliot tilted his head in confusion. “My friend? The one you said you wanted me to bring? 

Oh. Shit. Right. “Yes, yes, yes,” Eliot said quickly, nodding and snapping his fingers. “I saw. Good work.”

Proving himself once again to be less of a social rube than he seemed, Quentin raised his eyebrows with a knowing grin. “She’s over there, talking to Margo.”

Eliot followed Quentin’s pointer finger, off to the corner. Indeed she was. Two lithe bodies were leaned into each other, like magnets. Exactly as he planned. He smirked down at Quentin.

“Good work,” he repeated, squeezing his shoulder. Quentin brightened, pleased at Eliot’s attention. Oh, _sweetheart_. They’d have fun.

It was going to be a goddamn great night.

(And it was. For Margo.

“Now I get why you were hanging around with super nerd over there,” Bambi said, breathless and drunk, lips grazing his ear. She giggled as her big brown eyes stared endlessly at the laughing Quentin and Julia, off in the distance. “Thank you for your service, kind sir.”

Which. Hmm. Yes. Sure. Because spending time around fidgety, flittering Quentin Coldwater with the sharp jaw and cute ass was such a _terrible_ burden. But he liked when people owed him favors, especially Margo. So.

“Go enjoy yourself and Obnoxious Bitch’s belly button ring,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “You can make it up to me later.”

Kissing the hinge of his jaw, Margo smirked at him and twirled away, right into Julia’s arms.)

* * *

The next day, well after Hot Knowledge Girl should have been fully out of Margo’s system (twice), the strangest thing happened.

They were walking to class, in comfortable silence and Margo looked down at the ground.

She smiled. 

One of her rare, bright, easy smiles. Out of nowhere.

“What?” Eliot asked. He blew out smoke and wrinkled his brow. She shook her head and cleared her throat.

“Nothing,” Bambi said. She straightened her lips to their usual annoyed and glamorous scowl. 

But then she smiled _again_.

“What?” Eliot repeated, laughing. She bit her lip and tucked her hair behind her ears. She shook her shoulders out and her steps quickened.

“Nothing!” Margo said with the smallest squeak in her rough voice, walking ahead of him.

* * *

It wasn’t the first time either of them had fucked someone more than once. 

Eliot had a rotation of a few friends that worked well for him—and for him and Margo as a pair, on fun if increasingly uncommon occasions. As much as the chase of the strange and new was an intoxicating endeavor, there was a certain practical advantage to teaching someone your tics and tells over time. That way you could get your rocks off more efficiently and effectively. Basic science, really.

Still, though, it might have been the first time one of Margo’s fuck buddies became her study buddy. Or her lunchtime at the cafeteria buddy. Or her Hey-Let’s-Paint-Our-Toenails-and-Giggle-Even-Though-_Some_ -People-Are-Trying-to-Take-a-Goddamn-Nap-on-the-Couch buddy. 

Or, as the case was that particular Saturday morning, her new yoga buddy. Because apparently Margo was into _yoga_ now, of all activities. Out of fucking nowhere.

“Q,” Julia said with a wave at the squirrelly first year as he made his way down the steps. He’d moved into the Cottage a week before. It had been the best day of Eliot’s life, with only some hyperbole. He was still _very_ cute. “You should join us.”

“At—yoga?” Quentin tilted his head back and forth like a tiny confused kitten. “With you... and Margo?”

“Stretching, breathing, all that shit,” Bambi said, tossing her mat bag over her shoulder. “Lord knows you could fuckin’ use it.”

“Um, wow, yeah. I don’t think _hard pass_ conveys the severity of my opposition nearly enough so I’ll just say—“ Quentin started to snark at them, but honestly Eliot didn’t really hear the rest of their conversation.

Because. 

Well.

_Quentin in yoga pants._

“—Eliot?” 

He blinked, and blinked again when he saw Quentin slowly waving his hand in front of his face. Bambi and Julia were nowhere to be seen.

“You okay?” Quentin asked, looking adorably concerned. In response, Eliot smiled in that way he knew always dazzled first-year boys in particular.

“Always,” he said, smoothing down his vest. “Where’s Bambi?”

Quentin frowned, eyebrows screwing together. “Uh, at yoga? She—they literally just left? Are you sure you’re okay?”

_I’d be better if you were blowing me._

“Peachy keen, jelly bean,” Eliot said because why the fuck bother trying at that point. Quentin pretty much thought everything he said was brilliant. It was one of his favorite things about him. He wrapped his arm around Quentin and smiled down, enjoying the opportunity to get his current favorite first year to himself.

“So what are Quentin Coldwater’s plans on this beautiful Saturday morn?” Eliot asked, already directing both of them toward the sliding door out to the patio. Quentin’s shoulder shrugged under Eliot’s arm.

“I was thinking about going to the library to, uh, do some extra reading on binding enchantments?” Quentin’s eyes brightened with excitement at the idea of homework. “I’m struggling with how—how to, you know, incorporate the Turkish and the Arabic for—“

Eliot cut him off with an eye roll and a more directed pat on the arm. “Wrong answer. No, you’re going to drink champagne and gossip with me all day.”

“Oh,” Quentin blinked backwards in that way he always did. But then he gave Eliot his favorite tiny smile and said the two best words. 

“Uh, okay.”

* * *

From then on, the world began to shift.

** ~**~ **

** _Brakebills University, February 2016  
_ ** **(Six Months Prior to Our Fabulous Story)**

There was a gentle knock on the door as the sun streamed through the translucent white curtains. Eliot flipped onto his back, naked under his sheets. He let out a long breath and shuffled his head back and forth, willing the cobwebs away. Beside him, a warm body kept sleeping, snoring with even breaths. Long strands of soft hair reached his shoulder and Eliot hummed contentedly.

It had been a good night.

“Come in,” Eliot said, nuzzling his nose into his silk pillowcase. The boy next to him shifted and stretched, waking up at his words. 

The door squeaked as it slowly let in air and sound from the hallway. A soft voice said, “Hey El, uh—oh shit, sorry!”

Eliot let a sleepsoft smile melt across his face and he levered himself up on his elbows. His hair was unkempt and falling across his brow. But under the ringlets obscuring his vision, he could still see Quentin Coldwater dancing at his doorway, hand over his eyes and jaw set.

“Hi there, Q,” Eliot said with a chuckle. “It’s fine. Lachlan was just leaving.”

The boy next to him, Lachlan, blinked into the sun and scratched the top of his head. His long black hair was terribly mussed and he had cheap eyeliner smudged all along his face. Apparently, the disaffected pretty boy artist aesthetic didn’t translate to the morning time. Shock of shocks. Eliot cleared his throat and kicked his hookup’s calf with his big toe.

“Lachlan was just leaving,” he repeated, firmer. The boy furrowed his brow.

“I’m naked,” the first-year said, sexy when he was put out. “I’m not even sure where my clothes went.”

But not sexy enough.

“Guest robe is on the nightstand,” Eliot flicked an elegant wrist to the small cherrywood table beside the bed. The white robe was pressed and folded, tied with a silver bow. With a big sigh, Lachlan threw it on, muttering things like _Unbelievable _under his harsh breath. 

Eliot pursed his lips, unmoved. “You can keep it. I have a stash.”

Lachlan stood up and flattened his palm down the front lapel of the Egyptian cotton. Despite his initial annoyance, he twirled once, the fabric around his knees fluttering with the spin.

“This is nice,” he marveled. Eliot dipped his head back, growing bored.

“I know,” he said, cracking his neck. “Have a lovely day now.”

Lachlan twisted his lips like he was going to say something, but seemed to think better of it. He had keen instincts. Eliot offered the Healer a quick air kiss and wave as he walked out of the room, tugging the robe tie as tight as he could.

But apparently, he was easily distracted. Eliot resisted the urge to flop onto the bed as Lachlan stopped at the door, to make goddamn small talk.

“Hey Quentin, do you know what page we were supposed to read to for PA?” He asked Q, who was still covering his eyes and burning red.

“I don’t know, Lachlan,” Quentin said, throwing his other arm up in the air into a frustrated shrug. “Maybe we can, uh, talk about it when you’re actually dressed.”

Eliot smirked. Prude.

Rebuffed again, and this time by the second most beautiful man in the room, Lachlan sighed and patted down his hair in vain. Then he finally left, leaving Eliot alone with Quentin. 

In all, not a terrible turn of events.

“What can I do for you, Coldwater?” Eliot asked, only a touch lasciviously. He was still waking up.

Quentin opened a slot between his middle and index finger, peeking through. Satisfied that Lachlan had really left, he smoothed his hand back over his hair and down to scratch his neck. He frowned.

“He, uh,” Quentin said, looking down the hallway where Lachlan had just walked, “he kind of looks like Criss Angel.”

Eliot had no idea who the fuck that was. “Who?”

“A magician. Lowercase.”

“Christ,” Eliot said with a disturbed shudder. “Please keep that kind of observation to yourself.”

“Sorry,” Quentin said, not sounding apologetic at all. He took one tiny step into the room and turned red all over again the sight of Eliot’s languishing form. He didn’t blame him. He looked good, and the sheet barely covered his hip bones. Q glanced away firmly, swallowing and balling his hands into fists at his side.

Eliot slowly grinned.

_Oh baby, it’s okay, you can look_, his hindbrain helpfully supplied.

Quentin shuffled on his feet and cleared his throat. “Do you wanna, like, put a shirt on or—?”

“No, I’m good,” Eliot said, the embodiment of broad grins and cheek. “Thanks though.”

Quentin rolled his eyes and his tension dissipated. Eliot wasn’t sure if he liked that or not.

“We’re doing a bagel run and Margo said to get your order,” Q said. He puffed air into his cheek. He shrugged exaggeratedly. “So?”

“Toasted poppyseed with cream cheese,” Eliot said and Quentin nodded, turning around. He laughed at the presumption. “Excuse me. Not done.”

Quentin closed his eyes and banged his forehead against the doorframe. “Eliot.”

“The next ingredients should be layered in the following order: Jamon Iberico de Bellota, though prosciutto will do in a pinch. Heirloom tomato. Four slices of avocado. Drizzled lemon juice and extra-virgin olive oil. Salt, pepper, cilantro. No onion.”

“I’m pretty sure Joe’s Upstate Bagels is going to have exactly none of that shit, El.”

“Never hurts to ask, Q.”

Quentin shot him a look. “Is that all, Your highness?”

“No,” Eliot tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his chin in the groove between them. “Pick up a bottle of Perrier Jouet on your way back.”

“Only one? Are you on a cleanse or something?”

“Excellent point. Get five.”

With a light chuckle and a _Yeah, yeah _under his breath, Quentin raised his eyebrows and walked out, knocking twice on the door upon his exit. Eliot fell back into his pillows and closed his eyes, relishing the warmth and calm light of the enchanted sun as they moved across his lashes.

It was a good morning so far.

* * *

And the good morning continued in its lazy splendor. 

Eliot was showered and dressed, wearing his favorite gray linen blazer, pink waistcoat, and gold lapel pin. His hair was parted, ringlets falling in the precise cascade his magic fingers deftly perfected over years of practice. His shoes were shined, his breath minty, and his attitude steeled toward the seeking of all pleasure. Whistling down the stairs, he shot a quick wave over at a few vaguely familiar and friendly faces at the couches, before making his way into the kitchen. He grabbed a tiny espresso cup from the highest cabinet and turned around just in time to see the bright and shiny faces of his two favorite people on campus. His lovely, delicious Bambi and—

Quentin slammed a small white bag against Eliot’s chest. “This is all they had. Don’t bitch about it.”

“Aw, honey,” Margo air kissed at Eliot, tortoise shell sunglasses still obscuring her perfect doe eyes. “Don’t listen to him. You can bitch as much as you want, about anything, always.”

“You are a wonderful friend,” Eliot said, skipping the air to simply kiss her, full on the cheek and then on the mouth. Nipping after her grin as she walked away, he sighed contentedly and unrolled the bag. 

Inside was a sad little plain bagel with cream cheese and one watery tomato slice. 

He glared at Quentin. “You, on the other hand, are a worthless friend.”

Quentin huffed indignantly. “It’s literally all they had.”

Eliot crossed his arms. “The bagel place didn’t have poppyseed?”

Quentin’s jaw ticked and his lip dipped between his teeth. It almost looked like he was trying not to laugh, but Eliot knew he’d never be so goddamn brazen.

One of Quentin’s fingers went up into the air and his voice trembled with, indeed, brazen laughter. “So I may have forgotten you wanted poppyseed.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “It’s also not toasted. Did the toaster break? At the _bagel_ place?”

“Yeah, no, uh,” Quentin scratched the back of his head. He grimaced, slightly embarrassed. “Uh, sorry?”

“Worthless,” Eliot said again, lightly. He glanced over at the bag in Quentin’s hand. “Well, what did you get? Anything I can steal?”

Quentin shot him a cheeky grin. “Onion bagel with extra raw red onion.”

“Brat.” Eliot poked his shoulder once, tipping him off-kilter onto the balls of his feet. But Quentin looked scandalously unrepentant, eyebrows up and grin widening.

“Okay, Beatrice and Benedick—emphasis _dick_,” Margo waggled her own bagel at Eliot, who nuzzled back into her temple. “We have big plans today, so let’s get cracking. Julie’s getting back from the retreat in the next few minutes, so obviously I’ll be ocupado for the next few hours. But when I return? It’s picnic time, duck fuckers.”

“Duck fuckers?” Quentin’s voice was flat as Kansas. “Seriously, Margo?”

“I said what I said.”

“What can I do to help?” Eliot asked, holding his hand out to her. She clutched it and sighed, pressing her lips to his knuckles and gazing up at him with fluttering lashes.

“Plan the entire thing from minute detail to overarching vision?”

“Done.”

“Why does a picnic need an overarching vision?” Quentin asked, around a bite of his own bagel. It was definitely not an onion-palooza as described, so Eliot plucked it out of his hands and tossed him the other bag. Q accepted this as he should. “A picnic is, like, a picnic.”

“Always a philosopher, Q,” Eliot said, stroking Margo’s cheek. “I’ll take care of it, Bambi. Go get thoroughly fucked.”

“I plan on it,” Margo said, eyes twinkling. “Make sure you get some of that really good cheese Julia likes. The Camembert.”

“Done.” 

“What about me? What can I do?” Quentin asked, despite his initial reluctance, ever the Boy Scout. Margo laughed, a derisive sound. Also par for the course.

“You can grab the utensils or some shit,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Whatever El tells you to do. I’m delegating.”

Eliot laughed in turn. “Yeah and I—ah, I don’t need your help.”

Quentin shrugged. “Fine by me. I have some work to catch up on anyway.”

“Boring,” Eliot said. Needlessly.

Margo plucked at Quentin’s flannel shirt, pursing her lips. “So when you say you’re going to do work—are you talking about hard manual labor? Or is it more like you’re attending a conference for twinkish lumberjacks with self-esteem issues?”

“No,” Quentin said, twisting his eyebrows. “These are just my clothes. Like always.”

“Hmm,” Margo sighed, letting her long fingernails trace down his buttons. Then she smiled, patting his cheek. “I have an inexplicable amount of affection for you, Coldwater. Cherish it.”

Quentin’s eyebrows crawled up and down and all around. “Uh, okay? Thanks?”

Margo smiled all the wider and spun back into Eliot’s arms, as the muses intended. She kissed him once more and waved her hand, light as air. “Well. I’m going to go get my clit licked. See you duck fuckers later.”

Quentin threw his hands up. “Seriously, _why_ would you call us that?”

* * *

Planning a picnic was an entirely different beast than planning a party. It was closer to planning a dinner party, except it was typically more intimate, less elegant. One could even say picnics were more _casual_, though Eliot personally only used that word in relation to sex. 

In any case, it wasn’t any less intensive or intricate, nor any less worthy of Eliot’s considerable attention to detail. His favorite part of the Trials that year had been setting up the decadent outdoor soiree for one—all white linens and lace, silver candlesticks, floating chandeliers, and the most elaborate cream brocade duster he’d ever worn. Not to mention the red wine, champagne, pink roses, plum chrysanthemums, and perfectly applied eyeliner, frosting to the airiest angel food cake he’d ever put together. And a squirming, pissed off Quentin to watch all the while? God, it’d been perfection.

(The sandwiches definitely had too much dill though. He’d never make that mistake again.)

On that day, even beyond the enchanted weather, it was unseasonably lovely. There was a delightful confection of clouds and light, lending itself to a gentility and grace that inspired Eliot almost as much as raucous debauchery grinding deep into the night. So for the pleasure of his two closest friends in the world (and, he supposed, Julia), he kept it relatively simple. Enchanted blankets with perfect softness and size, fruit and cheese layered on delicate crystal platters, and more champagne than anyone could reasonably imbibe. But they were valiant and righteous and would do their damnedest to please Dionysus. 

Stretching his long legs out into the crisp and warm air, Eliot basked in the glow of the sunlight and the lucent sky. Quentin sat across from him, already picking out strawberries and cheddar onto his small white plate, looking quite pleased for someone who didn’t understand the need for planning a picnic. On the one hand, he was ridiculous. But on the other, having it all appear effortless was part of what Eliot strived for—in a way, it was a compliment to his abilities that Quentin still didn’t seem to appreciate the sheer amount of effort he put into everything. It meant he was succeeding.

Though a small amount of gratitude from Q wouldn’t be the worst thing either. Every now and then.

“What the fuck makes these strawberries so good?” Quentin asked, mouth full. Eliot sighed and shrugged, raising his eyebrows.

“Magic,” he said, twirling his hand in the air. He wasn’t about to give away his tricks to ungrateful Philistines.

Quentin’s dimples made an appearance and his eyes lit up. “Magic is the fucking _best._” 

Eliot’s heart did a tiny and painful little thump at his words. But luckily, he didn’t have to consider its meaning for too long, because Margo and Julia chose that perfectly timed moment to make their grand, giggling entrance. Bambi floated down onto the blanket with an air kiss and pulled Julia down next to her, smiling into her cheeks as their hands remained entwined. 

“Julia,” Eliot raised his hand in a salute at the tiny brunette, briefly capturing her attention away from Margo. “How’s the life of a staid and rigid Knowledge Kid?”

“Wonderful. Intellectually thrilling and academically challenging,” Julia said, busying herself with flute glasses in the picnic basket. “I’m pushing the boundaries of my power every day. How goes wasting your potential on frivolous parties and drunken stupors?”

“It’s going fantastically,” Eliot smiled. “Thank you for your sincere interest.”

Julia thrust up on her arms to kiss Eliot a pop of a kiss on the cheek. She was sweet. 

Sometimes.

“Hi Q,” Julia said, scrunching her nose toward her best friend. He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah,” Quentin said, waving her off. “I see how it is. Bottom of the list now.”

“Save the best for last,” Julia said blithely, scouring over the food platters with keen interest. “Ooh, Camembert!”

Margo glanced over at Eliot and mouthed _Thank you_ with a wink. He nodded over his wine glass, before taking a long and luxurious sip. It was a light, acidic Syrah. Underrated. 

He let the conversation wash over him, only half paying attention, especially as Julia kept talking on and on about living in the library. From the way she told it, you’d think it was goddamn Versailles. Or whatever the nerd version of Versailles was. But Quentin and Margo were both held in rapt attention. Q was interested in anything and any place that introduced him to more magic, more magical theory, more power and more information. And Margo? Well, Margo seemed to just like to hear Julia talk. As she did, Bambi’s eyes blazed, cheeks rosy and lips wet with anticipation. 

In a manner of speaking.

“—And it always smells like old books,” Julia said, scrunching her shoulders tightly to her ears with a bright smile. “It’s amazing.”

With a jumping startle, Eliot was pretty sure he heard Margo murmur _You’re amazing_. But, well, that couldn’t be right. No. Never. 

The wine and his brain were making strange bedfellows, that’s all.

“Best smell in the world,” Quentin said, breaking through the static air. And Eliot rolled his eyes so hard he slumped over.

“Anyone who says that is full of shit,” he declared, popping the champagne. “It’s the stench of decay. Who the fuck prefers that to the scent of life?”

“Didn’t you once say your favorite smell is cocaine?” Quentin deadpanned. Eliot leaned back on his hands and smiled up into the sun, eyes closed.

“Exactly. _Joie de vivre_.”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek. “Oh, and I’m the one who’s full of shit?”

Margo rolled onto her stomach and poked Eliot’s thigh. “Not to preemptively interrupt your whole Han-and-Leia thing, but can you pass me some fucking champagne before I literally _die_? Goddamn.”

With a bright and accommodating smile all for his most perfect Bambi, Eliot poured the fizzing drink into the elegant flute and the rest of the day whiled away in kind.

* * *

The only silver lining to Bambi’s intense fuck buddy situation with Julia was that Quentin Coldwater also lost his most reliable source of socialization in the same fell swoop. 

Initially, if he were honest, Eliot had hoped to recreate a similar situation with Q, mirroring Margo and Julia. To an extent, anyway. Maybe less giggles into the night and about tenfold the amount of moans. Even if his rotation of first year boys didn’t have an obvious vacancy, he would have made one in a heartbeat for Quentin, were he interested.

But. Well.

Q never showed interest. 

Not...really. Not _really_.

Not beyond a few shy smiles and occasional lingering eye contact. And the more they got to know each other, the more even that disappeared, replaced with sly comments and eye rolls. Which was of course enjoyable in its own way—more like they were friends. Real friends, who actually enjoyed each other’s company and preferred to shoot the shit, rather than exchange lingering, heated glances each other’s way.

Which was great and Eliot was definitely very happy with that turn of events. 

Truthfully, he’d never really had a platonic male friend before. Not since Taylor, at age fourteen. Obviously that had gotten fucked up and then after that, Eliot literally fucked anyone who even got close to some kind of deeper, _philos_ sort of connection. So it was novel, at least. Eliot liked novel. And as they both mourned the loss of the constant presence of their other halves (in its quantity, if not entirety), they’d somehow almost become that for each other. It was kind of nice. Kind of precious. Almost. Or it would be, if Eliot ever thought that sort of thing. 

Which he didn’t.

Still, slowly, with time, Q was just—well, he was _Q_. He was Quentin. A near constant presence at his side and somehow the second best friend he’d ever had in his life. Conversation between them followed easily, the silences were comfortable, and Eliot could even be physically affectionate in the way he liked without Quentin being weird about it.

Their friendship was...nice. It was a truer connection than the frantic hook-up he’d once envisioned. It was solid and consistent, things Eliot only knew he valued in the theoretical or in regard to Margo. Honestly, he’d forgotten all about his jawline or soft eyes or deliciously perfect cupid’s bow lips.

Or more accurately, Quentin’s good looks were only a small facet of a much bigger and more important picture. He could still hold a superficial attraction to Quentin while ultimately prioritizing their friendship. He wasn’t an animal.

And as the weather started turning nicer and nicer, even beyond the enchantments, they’d started taking their drinking outdoors, to the woods around Brakebills. Or sometimes they’d even walk around sober, just to get their mutual restless energy out.

It was another thing they had in common. The sleeplessness, the frenetic and kinetic anxiety, the occasional haunted dark circles under their eyes. They didn’t talk about it in so many words. But it was there, like a constant undercurrent. It was understood.

(Unlike with Margo, the words _Fucking hell, Eliot, suck it up _never even crossed Q’s mind, let alone his lips. It was appreciated. Not because it was better, necessarily. But it was certainly different. And sometimes he needed something different, it turned out.)

That day was a Sunday, and Eliot crunched down on a dead twig as he walked, regaling Quentin with his tales of glory.

“—and each night I scaled the heights of the divine, particularly on ‘Bring Him Home,’” Eliot said, sighing into the sky. Then he looked at Quentin quite seriously, educating as always. “It’s a particularly difficult feat, if you know anything about the score.”

“Wow,” Q said, his eyes widening. “That’s—”

Eliot nodded. “I know. Impressive. I have a vast array of talents.”

“Oh, uh, no,” Quentin swallowed. He bit his lip. “No, that’s not quite—I was actually going to say—”

“What?” Eliot smiled, cocking his head. 

Quentin’s mouth widened into a slow grin.  “I was going to say that’s _nerdy as shit_.”

Eliot stopped shock still. He traced only his eyes to Quentin.

“Excuse me?” He whispered. He bit back something that felt like his own smile. Because that would be ridiculous. “Did you just have a stroke? Forget who you’re talking to here, kiddo?”

“I dunno. I thought it was Eliot Waugh, Hedonist Extraordinaire,” Quentin swung his arms out in the forest air. Loopy motherfucker. “But now all I see is six feet of pure goddamn nerd.”

“I’m six-two,” Eliot shot out. But Q ignored him. He jumped on a log and walked it like a balance beam.

“I mean, honestly? Musical theatre?” Quentin bit the inside of his cheek, eyes shining. “Plays with random singing and dancing? What’s the point. Everyone should just read a book. It’s much more efficient.”

“It’s an _art form_, Quentin,” Eliot said, fully aware of how much of a little shit his friend was being and exactly how much he was enjoying it. Asshole.

Q sputtered out a laugh. “Art? Uh, beg to differ. My parents dragged me to see _Cats _when I was a kid. All I need to know. All anyone needs to know. Check and fucking mate.”

“Jesus Christ. _No._ That is not all you need to know,” Eliot said with a rush of defensiveness. “Weber is entry level shit for the masses. You’re ignoring the history of Porter, Gershwin, Rogers and Hammerstein, all the old-school greats. Bridged by Leonard Bernstein, then brought to gorgeous fruition by the sheer revelation that was _Stephen Sondheim_—“

“So the thing about Babylon-5?” Quentin jumped down from the end of a log and snapped his fingers. His smile was wide and bright and Eliot kind of wanted to die from his cuteness. What a way to go. “Straczynski attempted to change the fundamentals of the television landscape, even beyond the science fiction model, right? And it, uh, ended up influencing even his contemporaries in real key ways. You can see it in the work of Whedon, Abrams, The Wachowskis, even arguably Lucas. Though that’s—“

What a little _shit_.

“Point made.” Eliot kept his face as impassive as possible. “I’m still not a nerd.”

“Uh-huh. Whatever you say, nerd.”

“Don’t test me,” Eliot lightly threatened, not revealing that his punishment of choice would be to hold Quentin down on his bed, bare skin under his lips, moving agonizingly slowly until he begged Eliot for release. Jesus fucking Christ, he was delicious. And he still had no goddamn idea, which was even more—

_Fuck._

Okay. 

So, yes, he definitely still had occasional moments of weakness when it came to Quentin Coldwater.

However, in his experience, it was best to acknowledge them as they came and then let them go. That way, it wouldn’t upend the gentle equilibrium Eliot’s life had somehow started to find, despite all rationale to the contrary. Eliot was a fuck up, but that didn’t mean he would go out of his way to fuck things up. His attraction to Q and his friendship with Q existed in two separate boxes and generally, they didn’t overlap. But when they did? For a few moments? Here and there?

Well.

Weakness acknowledged.

He breathed in. He let go.

Quentin took a few steps ahead of Eliot before glancing back at him over his shoulder. “You know, while I’m not _such_ a nerd to be into the _musical—_“

Eliot bit back another small smile. “Watch it.”

“—I have actually read Hugo’s novel,” Quentin said, with a side-grin, like that wasn’t way nerdier. “Gotta say, I’d actually see you as more of an Enjolras. You know: _Antinous, wild_.”

His heart caught in his throat. Eliot wasn’t totally sure what to do with that. That Quentin would ever think of his that way.

So instead of pondering it too deeply, he cleared his throat and rolled his eyes, disaffected as ever.

“In terms of charm, energy, and likely dick size, I agree,” Eliot said, arm looping around Quentin’s shoulders for the hell of it. “But in terms of stage time, you can go fuck yourself with that suggestion.”

“Noted.”

* * *

Shit turned a real corner around Valentine’s Day though. It even hit the proverbial fan.

“Ooh, luscious flowers, Bambi,” Eliot said, sticking his face in the nearest orchid as he walked into the Cottage dining room. “For Genji, I assume? I heard she has an open slot in the summer retreat. Riding your fuck buddy’s coattails, are we?”

He plucked the card out from the topmost bunch and read Margo’s recognizably pristine and sharp handwritten script inside. As the words started to sink in, Bambi let out a primal scream and jumped on his back, ferocious in her scramble to wrench the card out of his hand.

But it was too late.

The card read—

_For My Jewel, _

_Happy National Fuck Day._  
_I’ll murder you in your sleep if you tell anyone about this, specifically with cyanide._  
_ But let’s definitely fuck later ;)_

_Kisses always,   
_ _Margo_

It fluttered out of his hand to the floor. 

He was slack jawed. 

“For My Jewel?” He asked aloud, incredulous, stunned. That was. What? No. What. “Kisses always? A goddamn winky face?”

“I can explain, El,” Margo said, hands shaking and eyes wide as she slid off him. She wrapped her arms around herself. Eliot glanced back down at the card, face down on the hardwood. Then looked back up at his Bambi. Then back down.

“Bambi,” Eliot laughed out breathlessly. Her lip trembled and he took her hand. “Margo.”

“Okay,” Margo said, shaky. She stepped away from him with tiny steps. Her hands were buried in her hair at her temples. “Okay. It’s just that—she’s smart, okay? She’s so smart. She’s almost as smart as me and you know I don’t say that lightly.”

Eliot blinked. What the fuck was happening?

Margo started wringing her hands, swallowing audibly, “And she’s tough and she doesn’t take shit. She’s a leader. Which is so hot. She’s hot, El.”

Eliot opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off with gritted teeth and an erratic, explosive hand motion outward from her chest. “But I know I don’t need to tell you she’s hot! You may like dick but you’re not fucking blind.”

His lips tugged into a small smile he only barely felt.

“Margo.”

“But she’s also funny. She’s stupid funny. And maybe even more importantly? My anger doesn’t alienate her. It’s like—like she thinks my rage is a worthy and powerful part of me that I don’t need to hide. That _I’m_ worthy and powerful.”

Eliot’s heart flipped over. 

“Margo,” he whispered.

“And she does this thing with her tongue,” Margo shuddered, biting down on her lower lip. “Her discipline is metacomp and she wrote a spell and it lasts for hours. Waves of orgasms for hours, El. Hours.”

“Well, uh, can you write it the fuck down?” Eliot lowered his brow. “What the hell, Bambi?”

“Sorry, yeah, I was going to. I will,” Margo said, holding her hand to her chest. She was breathless. “Also, she smells like goddamn cinnamon all the goddamn time. You know this bitch loves cinnamon. What the fuck.”

“What the fuck indeed,” Eliot folded his arms over his chest. He tilted his head. “So what? Are you saying you’re in—”

“Don’t,” Margo swallowed, hard. She pointed at him, eyes wild. “Don’t you goddamn dare, Waugh.”

“But it sounds like you lo—”

Margo sputtered in her rage, sparks flying from her fingertips. “It’s—I do not—_fuck you_.”

Eliot twisted his tongue in his mouth and bit down on the edge. He narrowed his eyes and slumped his shoulders. Bambi won. As always.

“Okay,” he said, shaking his head and hiding a laugh. “Fine. It sounds like you...tolerate her.”

Margo’s eyes lit up. “Yes. I do. I tolerate her.”

“That’s not a bad thing, Margo,” Eliot said, quiet and gently touching her hand. She didn’t move away which he took as a minor victory. But she didn’t reciprocate either.

“It’s a horrible fucking thing and you know it as well as I do,” Margo snorted. Eliot smiled. It really was and he did know it. “But.”

“But?”

Margo’s lip trembled. It would have been imperceptible to anyone else. “But I really, really tolerate her, El.”

In that moment, he had twin instincts. The first, to wrap Margo in his arms with all the protection and adoration he carried in his heart. The second, to spit on the name Julia Wicker for all eternity. They warred fiercely in his chest. But instead of giving into either, Eliot simply cleared his throat, stood tall, and placed his hands behind his back.

“Then I tolerate her too.” He nodded once, curt. Margo swallowed and linked her pinky against his. Her eyes softened and she smiled up at him, fierce as ever.

“Thank you.”

* * *

It was the Ides of March and Eliot dragged Quentin out of the Cottage to go on a long walk. They’d ended up deep in the woods, far outside the wards. The cold was bitter, especially compared to the enchantment to which they’d grown accustomed. The wind whipped their cheeks red and fingers blistered. 

But Eliot had to do something. He had to at least try to help Quentin be anything other than the fucking zombie he’d turned into over the few past weeks. So they walked. And walked. In silence, with only the wind and the faraway screech of an unpleasant bird as their soundtrack.

Two hours in, Q finally started talking. The harsh wind restored Eliot’s breath all at once—sweet balmy relief in contrast to their environs.

“It’s just, like, sometimes my brain breaks,” Quentin said, perched on the rock. His eyes had deep lines around them. Eliot handed him his flask. It was refused. “And the—the books, they were my lifeline. So when I’m—when my brain gets extra fucked, I read them. Kind of obsessively. No matter what’s happening around me.”

“Here I thought you just hated Welters, like me,” Eliot smiled, lighter than he felt. “Our whole friendship is based on a lie.”

“Yeah, well.”

Eliot stared up at the dwindling light between the leaves. “What are they about?”

“Four siblings who find another world,” Quentin dug his fingernails into a patch of moss, dirtying them. “Standard portal fantasy narrative.”

Eliot raised his eyebrows and one shoulder at once. He hadn’t been much of a reader as a kid. His mother believed most children’s stories were based in witchcraft or the occult. More than even his terrible brothers, she worried that Eliot was susceptible to the devil’s influence. Hence, both his innate magical power and even more innate preference for dick were the most smugly joyful conclusions in his whole goddamn life. 

Still, he wasn’t sure what was standard or not in most children’s books. He didn’t know what a portal fantasy even was, let alone the typical narrative structure of one. But that didn’t matter.

Quentin’s eyes met his, wide and glowing. He smiled. “But. Uh. But it’s the _best_ world.”

That mattered.

* * *

“Never have I ever,” Quentin furrowed his brow, biting his lower lip, “had sex on a beach.”

He was perched on their favorite rock, taking the game way too seriously, as always. From below, stretched out on a patch of enchanted grass, Eliot took a long chug from the flask they passed between them.

“You’re just trying to get me drunk at this point, right? Amateur hour, Q.”

Quentin glared and kicked at his ankle. Dirt kicked up as he did. “Getting the other person drunk is the point.”

Eliot took a stick and drew circular patterns in the ground. He glanced upward. “We can change that one next year, you know. When you come to Encanto with us. Find you a cute surfer girl to have her way with you in the waves.”

“Or surfer guy,” Quentin said with a shrug. 

Eliot tightened his brow. Q’s bisexuality belonged firmly in the box that didn’t overlap with their friendship. Otherwise, that tiny, pitiful voice that screamed _Why don’t you want me?_ would never shut the fuck up.

“My turn,” he said, clearing his throat and brain. He forced a chuckle, looking up at Q through his lashes. “Honestly, I’m running out of things I’ve never done.”

“Think like a nerd. Should be your forte,” Quentin said with a full-faced smile, and Eliot’s heart thudded. 

Quentin looked particularly good that day—wearing a blue button-down and dark jeans that actually fit him for once. His long hair was tied back in a loose bun. He was smiling more than usual and holding himself straight, eyes wide and visible, with his stance almost confident. His attractiveness was harder to resist than usual. 

So. Weakness acknowledged.

“Fine,” Eliot said out loud, rolling his eyes. “Never have I ever fucked a Dungeon Master.”

Quentin grabbed at the flask and chugged. He held a firm middle finger in the air. 

“Never have I ever used face moisturizer.”

“Never?” Eliot’s widened his eyes. “Seriously?”

How the hell did his skin look like that then? Fuck him, honestly.

Quentin chuckled, “I mean, I’m the guy who buys the bargain pack of combination shampoo and conditioner. This shouldn’t shock you.”

“Ugh, it’s all to your own detriment though,” Eliot lied. Because that was what his hair looked like after using a 2-in-1? Honestly, _fuck him_. He pointed the tip of the flask right at Q before taking a chug. “But fine. Never have I ever finished a book by Dostoevsky.”

“I still think you’d like _Brothers Karamazov_ if you gave it a chance,” Quentin said, after chugging. But Eliot simultaneously stuck his tongue out and his finger down his throat, miming gagging. “Fine. Never have I ever—” 

* * *

They were drunk. Really drunk. In the fucking woods and it was dark and everything was terrible. It wasn’t supposed to happen but it did, so what the fuck could Eliot do.

He shouldn’t have gotten this drunk. It shouldn’t have been possible for him to get this drunk.

But. Well. Here he was.

“Indiana?” Quentin asked with a quiet frown. Eliot brought his flask up to his lips. Missed.

“Indi-fuckin’-ana,” he confirmed, with a well placed hiccup. The ground was spinning. He fell back against a tree. “Tell anyone and I’ll leave you for dead on the side of a highway.”

“Um. Yeah. Uh, okay.”

* * *

Then there was the Kady shit. But Eliot didn’t like to dwell on the Kady shit.

So he didn’t.

* * *

“Any bank worth robbing uses one of a handful of security systems. All the usual bells and whistles,” Bambi said, stretching her long legs into the golden sun. It was setting over the trees and the air was heavy with sweet humidity. Unfinished finger sandwiches rested on tiny ceramic plates and several bottles of wine laid demolished beside. The gentle edge of summer was creeping toward them, slow and welcome and promising.

Margo continued with a gentle and genuine smile, belying her teasing and boastful voice. “But what most idiots don't know is those companies are all owned by Magicians.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Julia said with a hidden smile. She sat right behind Margo, hands weaving braids into her hair. “You are so full of shit.”

Bambi glanced coquettishly over her shoulder. “More like full of cash money and gold. That I stole. From a bank.”

Eliot poured another round of champagne and chuckled. “I believe it.”

He slid the flutes across the way to the giggling girls and then to the side. The taciturn Quentin took it with a slow nod of acknowledgement. He rested on the picnic blanket on his elbows and his face was inscrutable as he listened to Bambi regale them all with her larger-than-life claims. He gave no indication whether he believed what she was saying. Maybe it was because he knew, like Eliot, that _truth_ wasn’t really the point. It never was with Margo.

“Nope. Bull_shit_,” Julia said. She kissed Margo on the cheek with the final syllable. “You’re seriously telling me that at seventeen, you were so in touch with your powers that you were able to successfully break through magical security and sneak past Battle Magic practitioners?” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Margo turned around and entwined their fingers. She smiled into Julia’s mouth, their foreheads coming together. “Just because it takes some people longer to find their latent energy doesn’t mean they’re _inherently_ inferior Magicians.”

“Oh my god. Dead. You’re totally dead,” Julia said, laughing and digging her fingers in Margo’s sides, tickling her as Bambi shrieked with an unfamiliar, unbridled laughter. They fell over, curled into each other with their laughter ricocheting through the woods. And because he still wasn’t a particularly evolved human, Eliot wasn’t sure if the sight made him want to smile or sob. So he went with his old standby in cases of emotional complexity.

He drank.

Finishing his glass in a large gulp, he poured more for himself and another for Quentin. But when he went to hand it to the still silent man next to him, Eliot was taken aback by the burning intensity under Q’s furrowed brow. He kept his gaze focused tightly on the basking Margo and Julia. His lips alternated between quirking up and down, and his Adam’s apple bobbed repeatedly in time.

Something sharp, unfamiliar, and aching twisted in Eliot’s gut. With a swig of his flask followed by his wine glass, he sank down into the quilt next to Quentin. He laid down, splayed artfully and casually, relaxed and unbothered as ever. He nudged Q with the tip of his elbow.

“You have to know you never stood a chance if Bambi was in the running,” he said quietly, hopefully light in his teasing. 

“Oh,” Quentin startled with a laugh, a small sound. He raised his eyebrows, eyes going wide. “No, that’s not—are you talking about me and Jules?”

At Eliot’s slow nod, Quentin smiled and shook his head. “Ah, no. No. I’m totally over all of that. Why would you even—?”

Eliot shrugged, pushing down the dumb and irrelevant relief he felt at Quentin’s words. He sipped his wine again.

“You looked pensive and pining.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, surprised. He let out a small huff of air. His smile was tiny and sly. “Well, that’s just because I suffer from Resting Pensive and Pining Face.”

Eliot’s lips smirked around his glass. “Fair enough. Rare condition.”

He wasn’t going to push Q if he didn’t want to talk about it. Not his role. Not his interest.

“I don’t know,” Quentin said leaning back on his hands, strands of hair falling in his face. Eliot resisted the urge to push them back. “I think I was more thinking that it’s, um, it’s nice, you know?”

He frowned, not really understanding where Q was going with that. “What’s nice?”

“Julia and Margo. It’s nice,” Quentin said. He scooted closer to Eliot and their knees touched. “They like each other.”

“Well. Yeah. I’d hope so,” Eliot rolled his eyes. But Quentin shook his head.

“I mean, they enjoy each other’s company,” he sighed. “They really get along. On top of—you know, the sex and romance shit. They get to have both. At the same time. And—and that’s what it’s about, right? That’s _it_.”

Eliot’s eyebrows twitched and he focused his eyes on his shoe. “I guess.”

“That’s what I want at least,” Quentin said. He ran his fingers through his hair and darted his eyes. Eliot’s throat was tight and dry. He took a full sip of his red wine, letting the smooth and heady acid and oak roll around his tongue for several long minutes.

“How’s Abbie anyway?” Eliot asked, eyes closing against the question. “Or is it Gabbie? Denise? Bernice?”

“You know it’s Caitlin.” 

Except Eliot really didn’t. Quentin was certainly more of a monogamist than he, but his dalliances were few and far between. They rarely lasted longer than a few weeks. Learning names was hardly worth the effort.

“How’s she then?” Eliot asked, hopefully not too pointed. He popped one eye open at Q. He wasn’t amused. Oh well.

“Uh, I’m sure she’s fine,” Quentin said, raising his glass a little and ticking his lips down into a backwards grin. Eliot snorted. Of course. “Avoiding me now. After. She said our auras were out of sync and attacking each other’s life force. So apparently it’s best for us to never cross paths ever again.”

“Your fault for fucking a Naturalist more than once.”

“She’s a Psychic.”

“So much goddamn worse.”

“I’m taking a break from all that anyway,” Quentin said with a sigh, rocking his head back onto one of the several large colorful pillows Eliot had placed throughout the picnic space. “You know dating’s never been my strong suit. Either I push people away or I get—obsessive. Piney. As aforementioned.”

Eliot’s chest tightened.  “I didn’t mean it like—”

Quentin swallowed and quickly glanced away. “No. It’s fine. It’s whatever. Anyway, I’m just going to focus on school. Developing my discipline. The important stuff.”

Eliot perked up. “You got your discipline?”

Q rolled his eyes but still looked quietly pleased. “Repair of Small Objects.”

“Flashy.” Eliot hoped his own smile was tempered. Not too bright. That definitely wasn’t a given though. He was happy for Q, who’d been depressed about his lack of discipline since he’d known him. He would even say that he was proud, if that wasn’t patronizing as shit.

But Q must have taken it in the spirit it was intended because he simply nodded and dipped his head down, grinning wider. “Yeah.”

They clinked glasses and sat in comfortable silence, with Margo and Julia’s laughter joyfully carrying the day along.

** ~**~ **

** _Brakebills University, August 31, 2016  
_ ** **(One Day Prior to Our Fabulous Story)**

When Eliot once said that he enjoyed the beautiful nothing of summertime, he never anticipated it could mean a conspicuous absence of Bambi. But then again, he’d essentially spent most of the past year getting used to the conspicuous absence of Bambi. Her deciding to summer with Julia—Venice, Madrid, then Mykonos, last he’d heard—was a natural conclusion of the year that had somehow both broken and solidified their intense bond all at once.

And for the most part, Eliot was...okay. He wasn’t falling down a hole of depression and latent abandonment issues, so he figured that’s what okay had to look like. Margo was the single most important friendship, relationship, connection that he’d ever had in his entire life. But he wasn’t so emotionally underdeveloped to know that honoring that meant honoring change and what the other needed. While Julia wouldn’t have necessarily been his first choice for Bambi (_Yeah, but who would be? _A little voice asked, sounding far too much like Quentin), Julia was who Margo chose. 

Eliot knew that and therefore, he loved that. He loved both of them. For Margo.

(Of course, it also helped that before they two lovebirds left, Bambi had hugged Eliot for what felt like hours.

“Remember, baby,” she’d whispered against his pink shirt. “No matter _what_, I tolerate you most of all.”)

Of course, speaking of Q, it absolutely helped that Eliot’s favorite little nerd had stuck around instead of fleeing back to the magical hills of Jersey, as he was fond of saying. He had no illusions that Quentin had hung back to spend time with Eliot—they were close, but come on—and Q definitely sometimes ended up lost in a quagmire of spell theory and musty books. But for the most part, they were each other’s consistent go-to for meals, relaxation, walks, cautious adventures, and any activity that didn’t require solitude or, like, studying.

And if occasionally his idle brain conjured up other activities he and Q could do to pass the time, such as, oh, you know, wrapping around each other as they fucked into a mattress or the couch or outside on a picnic blanket or any number of places that he really hadn’t thought about it all that much? Well, then, ah. 

Well. 

Weakness acknowledged and all that.

But on that particular day, the last before his final year at Brakebills, Eliot was grappling with a different kind of weakness altogether.

“Do you ever wonder,” Eliot slowly spilled out, his legs stretching long on the couch and into Q’s lap, “if there’s more to life than parties and booze and merriment?”

“Nope,” Quentin said, jotting down notes in his book. He didn’t look up. “You should know my motto by now. Let the good times roll.”

“Charming.”

“End of summer blues?” Quentin asked, stretching his arm over his head. It lifted his shirt to reveal a sliver of torso. His light brown hair trailed downward. Eliot glanced away.

“More like end of life,” Eliot sighed, hand on his forehead like he was fainting. “I’m dying. Of boredom. Makes brain talky-talk.”

“I’ll send Margo a condolence card.”

“Please,” Eliot said, leaning his head back against the arm of the couch. “You’d be devastated if I died. You’d cry so hard.”

Quentin smirked and returned to his work. “Eh. I mean, at first, sure. But then with all the newfound peace and quiet? I think I’d get by.”

Eliot kicked his thigh. “I’m actually being halfway serious here.”

“Jesus,” Quentin huffed, pencil squeaking against the paper. “Yes, El. I’d cry if you died.”

“No, you _brat_,” Eliot glared half-heartedly. “I’m halfway serious about trying to find more purpose. Or something like that.”

“Halfway like, you actually want to talk about your future and respect my opinion on the matter?” Quentin asked, strangely quiet. He looked up at Eliot under his curtain of hair. “Or halfway like, you already have a point you’re barreling toward?”

“Sometimes I worry that I’m too self-focused,” Eliot said, in lieu of a direct response. “That my only aim is my own interests. Maybe that’s not as—maybe I’m selfish sometimes.”

“Really? Selfish?” Quentin smirked. “You?”

Then he glanced up at the boy feeding Eliot mixed nuts. Honestly, he’d forgotten he was there. The nuts seemed to appear from nothing.

“Now, now. Jasper here is very happy,” Eliot insisted, lazily petting the boy’s dark brown hair. It was coarse and wavy, wiry and staticky to the touch. Quentin rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, uh, I’m pretty sure his name is Jason,” Quentin said, looking directly at the new second year. “Isn’t it?”

“Technically,” Jasper said, hesitant. “But Eliot said that sounded like I belong in a 90s skateboarding Pizza Bagels commercial. So he—we changed it.”

“Doesn’t fit the aesthetic,” Eliot grinned around a cashew. He crunched it down to nothing. “Walnut please.”

Jasper pressed a walnut against his lips. The tips of his fingers smelled like cheese and vinegar, for some reason. He wrinkled his nose as he slid the nut between his teeth and chomped down, exaggerated. Jasper looked delighted but Quentin narrowed his eyes, unimpressed. Which, like, Eliot wasn’t sure what his problem was? It was all copacetic. He’d even said please, for Christ’s sake.

“So you were saying you’re trying to be less self-centered?” Quentin prompted, his voice monotone in that dryly insinuating way of his.

“That’s oversimplifying,” Eliot said, spitting out the Brazil nut Jasper tried to feed him. He glared upward and Jasper averted his eyes, guiltily. Damn right. He knew better than that. But he was also talking to Q right now, which was slightly more important.

Eliot continued, admonishing Jasper with little more than a sharp flick on the wrist. “I was thinking about what you said at the beginning of the summer. How you’re focusing on the important stuff this year. Less dating, more studying. How you have a goal.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows. “Is this you telling me you’re taking a vow of celibacy?”

Eliot laughed. Hard.

“What I mean is that I see how happy Margo is now, right? And Julia?” Eliot tapped his hands on his legs. “Well, their happiness weirdly makes me happy. It’s the strangest thing.”

Quentin shook his head, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah. That’s called empathy.”

“Sure. Whatever. In any case, I feel like, technically, I had something to do with that. So maybe I should consider continuing down that path? Helping others find happiness?” Eliot sighed wistfully, wrapping his hand around the back of Jasper’s neck. It was sweaty.

“You’re definitely saying words right now, huh?”

Eliot cocked his head with narrowed eyes. “Watch it, Sassafras.”

Q responded with nothing more than a shit-eating grin, replete with those dimples and crinkled eyes. Warmth spread from Eliot’s chest out through the tips of his fingers. For a splash of a moment, he wished Quentin always looked like that. And for half a splash of a moment, he wished he could have something to do with Quentin always looking like that.

“Excuse me, Eliot?” A jarring voice shattered his thoughts and Eliot swallowed his heart back to earth. “The nuts are gone. Do you want me to get more?”

“Go away, Jasper,” Eliot said, wiggling his fingers toward the stairwell. Jasper immediately jumped off the top of the couch, relieved to be relieved.

“See you around, Jason,” Quentin said pointedly, eyes burning right into Eliot’s. The air crackled, and he swallowed around that more and more present dry lump, down into his constricted, thudding chest. He breathed. 

Weakness acknowledged.

Weakness acknowledged.

_Weakness acknowledged, goddammit._

He breathed again.

“Later, Quentin,” Jasper called from behind his shoulder. Eliot flipped his head around and raised his eyebrows, expectant. Jasper’s hand faltered on the bannister. “And, uh, it’s—it’s Jasper.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. Jasper sent them another quick, meaningless wave and Q watched him disappear up the stairs with a strange look on his face. He sighed and turned back to Eliot, tapping the end of his pencil on his book three times before laughing.

“Honestly?” Q said, biting his lip. “I’ll believe you can be charitable when I see it.”

Eliot frowned and crossed his arms. “Well, that’s kind of dickish.”

“Don’t mean it to be dickish,” Quentin said with another sigh. “Just that, like, I kind of believe people are who they are, you know? And—and who you are is good, El.”

Dry throat. “Oh.”

Quentin smirked. “But the day you start giving a shit about other people’s general _happiness_ without any self-interest is the day I, like, join a gym because I care about getting physically fit. Or sell my Fillory first editions because I want to expand my horizons. We can all talk about these things, but that doesn’t mean they’ll actually, you know, happen. We are who we are, good and bad.”

Eliot swallowed down a rough anger and simply smiled, blithe and lazy. “Well, then I’ll just have to prove you wrong.”

Q’s lips quirked up. “Which is a form of self-interest in and of itself.”

“Oh no, that’s sheer pettiness and tenacity,” Eliot said, all stiff-upper lipped. “Very different.”

“Then God help us all,” Quentin mumbled, still smiling but turning back to his work. Eliot sat up and flopped his body as close to Q as he could get. He tossed his arm around him.

“Oh, Q. That’s the exact idea.”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Christ.”

“Yes?”

“Okay, no. Stop that.”

And as they joked into the brightening morning, Eliot spared a glance away from Q’s lovely face. The sun streaked through the window just so, like a painting. 

It really had been a surprisingly good summer.

And just as he looked outward onto the quiet campus, a Canadian goose flew silhouetted against the pale sky, before descending right to the ground. It landed gracefully, its black webbed feet stark against the green grass. Briefly, he thought that it seemed a touch early for migration. But what did Eliot know?

Paying the creature no more mind, he turned back to the laughing Quentin, with a grand smile.

* * *

tbc.


	2. A Wish to Please

** _  
Brakebills University, September 2016  
_ ** **(Our Fabulous Story Finally Begins)**

*****

**(Entitled: How Eliot Saves the Day With His Wit and Grace,** **No Matter What Quentin Says, He’s a Nerd Anyway)**

*****

** (Alternate Title: Why is Eliot Only Friends With Rude People?** **That’s the REAL Page-Turner)**

* * *

Here’s the thing about Todd.

Eliot intellectually understood why he “wasn’t so bad.” Or how certain people could think Todd “always had good intentions.” Or why the affirmative answer to “Jesus, did he really deserve to have I AM TACKY magically tattooed on his forehead because he whistled _Cotton-Eyed Joe_?” may be seen as “autocratic as shit.” 

He knew Todd was an amiable boy. His simpering smile and vacuous wide eyes always graced the Cottage denizens without fail. Literally. Every single goddamn morning, he stood at the bottom of the staircase, bound and determined to wish each person well. He did it whether they wished for his well-wishes or not.

Some people called it charming. Eliot had other words, not fit for polite company.

By all accounts, though, he was a true blue Physical Kid. His discipline had to do with the transmutation of mineralogy particles, which verged on Natural but came out Physical in the end. More to the point though, he was the biggest cheerleader for their lifestyle. He loved the parties, Welters, their inherent superiority, and all. No one was more likely to boast about the Signature Cocktail. No one more likely to praise Eliot’s finesse. No one more likely to cower at Margo’s ferocity. And no one more likely to sing hymns about how the Physical family had a _cohesion_ that no other house emphasis could touch. He was cheerful and thoughtful, and he had a decent alcohol tolerance belying his frail and concave body. 

Some overwrought psychologist would have a field day with why Eliot held such strong negative feelings against the idiotic dweeb. From behind a smoke-billowing pipe and tweed jacket, they’d declare it based in “childhood trauma compounded by an early loss of innocence, resulting in a visceral discomfort when faced with earnest and unafraid vulnerability.”

Groundbreaking analysis, really.

But what psych quacks would never understand was the one simple, truest fact. Which was that...Todd? Was _so_ fucking annoying. Like, scalp-burning, eyes-watering, boner-killing irritating as all hell. It was a truth not many people liked to acknowledge in a Kumbaya world, but some types would never mesh even in light of good intentions. 

Todd would never, ever mesh with Eliot Waugh.

But on that day, the first day of classes, Todd’s sycophantic brightness served a vital purpose, for the first and last time. See, sports connotations aside, Eliot believed in going big or going home. And what would be a bigger opening entry in Operation: Prove Quentin Wrong than having a voluntary conversation with his least favorite person on campus? It was simple and genius, certain to impress.

Spring in his step, Eliot shot his handsome face a quick wink in the hallway mirror before descending the stairs. He looked divine—oxblood blazer, gray vest, gold tie, tumbling curls, Hallelujah. Perfect for the sweet wide-eyed boys who were certain to fill the Cottage in a short manner of time, all lost and confused in a new world of magic. Thank goodness there was such a beautiful, wise Third Year to help them along their journey, no?

Pulling out his trusty enchanted thermos, Eliot almost forgot the hellish mission he’d signed himself up in his lustful reverie. That is, until he nearly crashed right into Todd’s eager waving.

“Have an awesome first day, Valerie!” The dork hollered at the slamming front door. “I know you’re gonna crush it! I believe in you!”

Ugh. Grant him strength.

“Todd,” Eliot said, voice tight through his teeth. He hissed in a breath. “Volume control is a virtue.”

“Hey Eliot,” Todd said, mouth falling open wide. “Wow. It’s so nice to see you. You look amazing on this finest of mornings.”  


_Ugh._   


But fine.

“I know. Thank you. How—“ Eliot cleared his throat with a grunt and ticked his head to the side. He could do this. “How are you?”

Todd shook his head, comically large eyes falling into sadness. “No bueno, hombre.”

Correction: He couldn’t do this.

But just as he was about to tell Todd to fuck off as usual, Quentin stumbled down the stairs, hoodie twisted behind his back. He was trying to fit his left hand through the right arm sleeve.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” Q’s staccato voice punctuated each step he took, limbs squirming valiantly. “Shit.”

His chest twirling with a fond affection for his most hapless friend, Eliot smiled a little before turning back to Todd. He held his posture high and put his own hands into his elegant waistcoat pockets.

He could do this.

“Sorry to hear that, Todd,” Eliot said, magnanimous in his head tilt. “What’s troubling you?”

“I’m a numbskull and a half,” Todd said with a sigh and oh, god, _no_, he couldn’t do this. “I promised Dean Fogg I’d be a guide for a special circumstance student at ten, but I totally read my schedule wrong. I have my first lecture with Sunderland at the same time and attendance is five percent. I’m in a classic jam sandwich, Eliot.”

Jesus Christ. “What the fuck is a special circumstance student?”

“It’s a student who comes to Brakebills under special circumstances,” Todd explained, without a drop of condescension. Eliot wasn’t sure if that was better or worse than if it’d been witless sarcasm. “In this case, Alice Quinn is a returning second year. Exchange student, I guess.”

“Brakebills doesn’t have exchange programs,” Eliot said. It was like he was speaking to a particularly stupid preschooler. But then his eyebrows twitched as his brain whirred in recognition. “But—ah—did you say… Alice _Quinn_?”

“Sure did,” Todd said, bright. “Do you know her?”

Eliot slid right over that question. He wrapped an arm around Todd just as Quentin brushed past the two of them, muttering to himself under his breath. He disappeared into the other room. 

“You and I are friends, Todd,” he said and Todd immediately choked into a coughing fit. Eliot thumped his back once. “So I’ll help you out, okay? It’s really the least I could do.”

Todd let out a small gasp of gratitude, but his next words were cut off by—

“_Has anyone seen my fucking bag?_” Quentin’s voice called from the dining room. Eliot sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“_It’s by the entryway where you goddamn left it_,” he called back, eyes right on the leather monstrosity. Quentin was such a disaster. Not an original observation by any means, but a necessary one. Shaking his head with a chuckle, Eliot turned back to Todd, who was gazing up with sunshine in his eyes.

“You mean, you—you’ll be Alice’s student guide?” Todd asked, awed. “For me?”

“Absolutely,” Eliot said, tipping his chin up. “We Physical Kids need to stick together. Do you have the name card?”

“Yes, right here,” Todd said, digging into his pocket. He handed over a small white card that read _Alice Quinn_ in formal script. Eliot’s eyes sparked. Perfect. “Man, you’re a lifesaver. Really.”

“It’s no trouble,” Eliot said. But then he paused. “Of course, you’ll owe me.”

“Of course,” Todd said, holding his hands up and taking one step backward. “Anything you need.”

“Excellent.”

Todd put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his feet. He was still staring at Eliot. It was awkward.

“This is the single nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” Todd said, big brown eyes almost black in their devotion. “Thank you so much. From the very bottom of my heart.”

Eliot rumpled his brow and cleared his throat.

“Ah,” he said. He pursed his lips. “Well. Okay then. You’re welcome.”

Todd bobbed his head back and forth with his signature dumb grin. He started to open his mouth to say something else, but thankfully he was cut off again by Quentin’s reappearance. He was shaking his head and zipping up his hoodie, well-dressed as ever for a momentous day.

“Morning,” Q said, eyes glancing back and forth between Eliot and Todd. He bent over to finally pick up his bag as Todd waved enthusiastically.

“Good morning, Quentin!” Todd said as he darted toward the door. “I have to scoot, but I hope you have a great day! I believe in you!”

Quentin smiled at that and his eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Wow. That’s—that’s nice. Thanks, Todd.”

Todd nodded brightly and gave them both a thumbs up, before finally disappearing into the morning. Eliot let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and turned his attention entirely to Quentin, fussing with his bag strap. He grinned, sly.

“I believe in you too,” Eliot said, eyes narrowed lasciviously. “For the record.”

“Fuck off,” Quentin said, eyebrows raising again along with a middle finger. Eliot shrugged. 

“My, my,” he said, leaning against the bannister on one arm. “Someone’s a Grumpy Gus. Back-to-school jitters?” 

Q sighed and slammed his hands against the sides of his head, overwhelmed already. “Yeah, uh, I guess. Hey, so if you’re waiting for me, you can head out. I’m running super late and my coffee’s still brewing. Somehow. Even though, like, it’s suppose to be fucking magic? I don’t know.”

“Here.” Eliot rolled his eyes, taking pity on the child. He handed Quentin his thermos. It was his second serving, so honestly, he didn’t really need it. “For you.”

Quentin’s eyes popped up and he let out a loud huff of breath. He took it greedily and unscrewed the lid to chug the French roast.

“Shit. Thanks, El,” Q said, tone finally soft. “How do you always have stuff like this waiting for everyone?”

His eyebrows ticked up quickly, in time with his lips. “Just a good host, I guess.”

Quentin’s eyes caught his for a barely discernible moment, gentle and singing. But then they shuttered into their usual wryness.

“You know I live here, right?” Quentin asked, his teasing inflection lifting each word. “I’m not a guest. And it’s not, like, technically _your_ house either.”

“The world is my house, Q,” Eliot said, ushering him out the front door by the small of his back. “Now, before we go, did you get your first day of school picture taken? Hold up that adorable little sign that says _Second Year_? Daddy’s so proud.”

“Yeah, uh, Daddy’s a dickhead.”

* * *

Quentin was much less bowled over by Eliot’s selfless good deed than anticipated. 

As they walked down the long path into the heart of campus, Q squinted his eyes in disbelief , rather than smiling and saying things like, _Mea culpa! I underestimated you, El. By the way, impeccable pocket square fold._ Instead, he scratched the back of his neck and tilted his head over and over again, like he was trying to solve an incomprehensible puzzle.

“Did you hit your head in the shower?”

“Jesus, Q,” Eliot said with an affronted glare. “He was in a bind. I helped. Is that so unbelievable?”

“I mean, yeah,” Quentin said, half his mouth tugging upward. “Historically, epistemologically, psychologically—“

Eliot elbowed him hard enough that he tripped over to the side. He felt no remorse. Quentin was used to stumbling though, so he straightened himself back out quickly. Within seconds, he rematched Eliot’s stride, staring up with a still suspicious smirk.

“So to reiterate,” he said, putting his hands in his pockets. “You’re doing this to be nice? To Todd? There’s no other reason?”

Hmm. 

Okay. 

So that definitely had the potential to blow up in his face if he held firm to the line. Eliot bit the inside of his cheek and tracked his eyes over, weighing his options. He sighed.

“That…” he said slowly, with a squinted eye and a scrunched nose “…and the girl in question also _might_ be Genji Quinn’s niece?”

Quentin snorted. “There it fucking is.”

“Well, I’m not trying to be a goddamn saint, Coldwater,” Eliot said as he tucked his notebook under his arm. Look at him. Bringing a notebook. He really was taking his responsibilities seriously. He tried to angle his body so Q would notice it. 

He didn’t.

Instead, Quentin took another sip of coffee and looked up at Eliot from under his brows. “But I didn’t think you even cared that much about your career?”

“God, no. I don’t,” Eliot said, sticking out his tongue in a dance across his teeth. “But the retreat’s associated parties are legendary decadence. Think Caligula. Besides, bonus, could you _imagine_ the look on Margo’s face if I got to go and she didn’t?”

“I wouldn’t hang your hopes on that. You wouldn’t even be able to appreciate it,” Quentin said, shaking his head. He grinned. “You know, between all the stabbing.”

Eliot laughed, a light bubbling in his chest. Sometimes it struck him as a shame that more people didn’t get a real glimpse at Q’s dry-witted sense of humor. It was often sharp, usually on the edge of dark, and always more clever than most would give him credit for. But unlike Eliot, if Quentin was able to craft a well-placed barb, it meant he was relaxed. Bon mots weren’t part of his armor; they were what his cloak of anxiety suppressed.

He was a selfish man though.

So more often than he saw it as a shame, Eliot _liked_ that he was the one who got unguarded Quentin to himself. He liked that it was a given at that point in their friendship. He liked the unspoken trust it communicated. Being real friends with Q was like… finding a secret garden. Most people only saw the drab stone wall, passing by without another thought. Only a precious few—maybe only the worthy—got access to the wondrous truth and flora within. And Eliot really, _really_ liked being one of the precious few who had the key. He liked being one of the only ones who could unlock the beauty, intricacies, and copious dick jokes within the heart of Quentin Coldwater. 

“You had a student guide, right?” Eliot asked as they turned along the path. It was more to change the subject of his own mind, because, uh, what the fuck was _that_, Waugh. “Who was it again?”

“Sam. My ex, remember?” Quentin said. Eliot immediately rolled his eyes, hard. 

First of all, _ex_ was putting it a bit generously. They’d dated for a whole long weekend. A life-changing affair, he was sure, but history would remember it as a rightful blip. Second of all, Eliot had actually been friends with Quentin when this _Sam _had made an unwelcome appearance. Not to mince words, but he hadn’t been impressed by the slow-witted, Pokémon-obsessed spectacle of Q’s hook up. He wouldn’t have known what to do with himself if it hadn’t ended as quickly as it began. Eliot would have truly loathed having to find a place for such an uninspired guest at his dinner party tables.

Scowling, Eliot huffed. “Right, the annoying Naturalist with—“

Q set his jaw and glared. “He did not have—“

“—halitosis.”

“His breath smelled fine.”

“It’s like on _Hoarders,_” Eliot said, lighting a cigarette. “When the hoarder thinks their hoarding den smells, you know, ‘fine.’ But it actually smells like dog shit because of all the literal dog shit.”

Quentin’s lips pressed into a flat line. “Am I the hoarder in this scenario or is Sam?”

“You’re the hoarder. He’s the dog shit.” 

Duh.

“Yeah, you’re an asshole,” Quentin said with a side-glance, though without any real annoyance. He knew Eliot was teasing. Not about the halitosis part (that had been fucking _true_), but Q knew that Eliot respected his past little relationships. At least, when they were actually happening. He was nice enough to Quentin’s fuck buddies. He’d always borne their nerdy, milquetoast chatter, like any good friend would. 

More or less.

“Mmm, indeed,” Eliot said before he grinned and patted Q on top of his head as they reached the cluster of classroom buildings. “On that note, have a good day, honey. Don’t work too hard.”

Instead of an actual goodbye, Quentin walked away, signature middle finger high in the air. Eliot chuckled and plastered himself against a tree, cigarette perched between his lips. He had an hour to kill and he planned on looking damn good while doing it. Eyes fluttering closed, he breathed in smoke and daydreamed of Genji, Margo screaming for blood, and a few other fleeting, unimportant dalliances, too silly to name.

* * *

The instructions on the back of the name card appeared exactly fifteen minutes before the appointment time. Eliot was to meet Alice Quinn at the sculpture garden. She'd arrive at the space between the tall trees and manicured shrubbery. The area served as the unofficial separation between the classrooms and the living space. His stated goal was to take her to the Cottage, where she’d be living. Eliot assumed that meant she was a Physical Kid, but the notes gave no indication of any personal details. That was standard—it wasn’t like Dean Fogg was Mr. Forthcoming 2016. 

The sun dappled through the Spanish moss and Eliot maneuvered his way over to the statue of Gregor Alowitz. He had no particular affinity for Gregor Alowitz—one of the donors for the Brakebills’ Consciousness Building, psychic nonsense—but the base of the statue was the perfect height to jump onto and stretch out, languid and picturesque. It was crucial that he make an excellent first impression on this particular student, since she held the keys to the proverbial castle.

If she was anything like Genji, Eliot wasn’t concerned that they would get along. Genji Quinn was a work of art. Round sunglasses over matte makeup and an array of brightly colored Chanel. She always wore stunning turbans adorned with antique brooches, each worth more than the entirety of Eliot’s own considerable wardrobe. Her full-length dresses swished and sang, all overtop cheeky black combat boots. She spoke softly, carried a big stick, and probably fucked every soporific bourgeois magic asshole with it nightly. Twice on Sundays.

He’d meant what he said to Quentin. Eliot truly didn’t care much about his career. He was more interested in the intoxicating extravagance in the slow motion masquerade balls of the retreat than any networking connections he could glean from it. But there was a promise in someone like Genji—that someone like him, someone who cared about aesthetics and pleasure in his magic—could still succeed and wield power. That someone like him could find something to do with his miserable life, in a way that wasn’t quite so sad and empty. That maybe he wouldn’t be totally alone once he turned around the corner of graduation, especially if Margo’s focus was still going to be on Julia along with conquering the whole damn universe. 

But Eliot was being a touch sentimental. Terrible for the affectation. There were times when a wistful gaze in his hazel eyes attracted the right kind of boy, for the right kind of mood. The _Tell me your secrets as we fuck dirty in the moonlight_ type he was marginally fond of, on a rare occasion. But today, he was aiming for vivid and keen, larger-than-life in his beauty and boldness. If this Alice was Genji’s darling niece, it would take even more than his usual panache and zing to get in her pants. 

Then, the clock tower struck ten and all was well.

Like a teleportation, a young woman was standing in front of him. Of course, she hadn’t actually teleported. She probably wasn’t a Traveler. The volatile, sexy Indian guy and Josh’s ex were the only two he knew. Before Victoria graduated, they mostly kept to themselves in a strange little queer cabal with a few other psychics. If Alice was a Traveler, she would have been immediately folded into Penny’s odd group, rather than sent Eliot’s way. Instead, her fast appearance came from her she short, piercing steps. Her thick-heeled Mary Janes clacked against the concrete.

She wasn’t… _exactly_ what Eliot had pictured.

Alice was blonde, very blonde, with stick-straight hair that reached her shoulders. Her dark brows were groomed but angry under red framed glasses that did little to flatter her cream-pink skin. Her lips were pinched in automatic distrust and her slender jawline was set at an angle, though she were steeling herself. She wore a sharp and rigid babydoll dress, with a lumpy gray sweater. Her arms were crossed over a pair of giant tits. 

“Alice Quinn?” Eliot asked, incredulous. He jumped down and stared down at the card. He needed to make sure he’d gotten the name right. Because, like fuck this uptight nerd was related to Genji, right? But Alice nodded, curt and disinterested. She looked Eliot up and down in tandem with the end of his own once over. 

She cleared her throat. “You’re the student guide, I presume?” 

Eliot offered her a wary salute and smile. She scowled.

“This is unnecessary,” she said, brushing past Eliot without a proper greeting.

He blinked and snorted, falling into step next to her. “Why, enchanted to meet you too.”

“I’m a second year who has been working with Mischa Mayakovsky at Brakebills South. I am at a level of magical adept that allowed me to forgo even The Trials,” she said, moving forward with tiny steps. Her eyes set blazing ahead under those firm brows. “No offense, but I don’t need anyone’s guidance. So take me to my room and you can check your little box, okay?”

“Okay.” Eliot suppressed a smile. He could switch tacks. He was flexible. “Understood, ma'am. I’m sure you’re tense after such a long journey today.”

Her frown deepened and she stared back at Eliot like he was the biggest idiot she’d ever met. “I arrived yesterday. I’ve been in acclimation chambers and signing paperwork. Did you seriously not read my file?”

_Genji’s niece, Genji’s niece, Genji’s niece._

“Oh, I definitely didn’t. Couldn’t be assed,” Eliot laughed smoothly. He was hardly shamed by this pretty little cave troll and he had a mission. “If everything you’re saying is true, though, then why the fuck do you even need a student guide? Feeling pretty expendable here.”

She honked a laugh of her own, still sounding like a goose. “Tradition, I suppose. Congratulations on being a glorified bellboy.”

That was almost funny. Eliot smirked her way, a signal of gentle camaraderie, and Alice slightly slowed her pace at his interest. She kept half a glance on him as they turned the bend toward the student living corner of campus.

“Lord knows I’d look rakishly handsome in one of those flat top hats,” Eliot said with a smirk and a waggle of his flask. He downed a sip, ignoring Alice’s now darkening watchful eye. “You’re a Physical Kid then, hm?”

Alice pursed her lips and shook her head. “Listen, Todd. You seem like a nice enough person, but—“

“Jesus. Fuck. Nono_no_. Take it back. I’m not Todd,” he said, lighting a cigarette. He gestured toward her with his silver case, the top flapping up and down on its hinges. “Want?”

“Of course not,” Alice said, snarling her lip. Eliot shrugged and took a long drag. When he blew out the smoke, she coughed into her hand without breaking eye contact, a pointed sound. Eliot rolled his eyes. One of those.

They walked in tense silence for a few more moments before Alice couldn’t help herself. She whipped toward her, arms crossed.

“But I was told I’d be meeting a Todd Bates?”

“Nope. Lucky day for you.” Eliot gave one more attempt at a warm smile. It was again rebuffed and his patience was growing thin.

“Well, if you’re not Todd, then who are you?” Alice demanded, hands on her hips. “And where exactly are you taking me?”

“I’m a serial killer,” Eliot drawled, arms wide and indicating the Cottage in the distance with his cigarette. “That’s my lair.”

“Original,” Alice said, with a massive eye roll.

But his hilarious joke must have at least convinced her that arguing would be futile. In terse silence, she followed him down the path, ready to greet her reluctant new home. Eliot grimaced as he opened the door, making a mental note to _Kill Todd_ once again. He should have known better.

Fucking Todd.

* * *

Alice’s room was on the far end of the hallway, a brand new door that appeared from nothing. It was painted in blocks of pastel blues and bright yellow. Garish, not to Eliot’s taste. His door was a mosaic of stained glass jewel tones, which was much more fitting of the Cottage’s painstaking aesthetic. The one that he, of course, had set, but that was neither here nor there.

(When he moved into the Cottage as a first year, the whole thing had been done up in a horrifying Scandinavian Industrial style. The IKEA curves, colorless palette, and fucking concrete coffee table still haunted his nightmares.)

As they walked through her door, Eliot was surprised to see that everything had been already meticulously unpacked. Her walls were adorned with Kinkadesque framed drawings—domestic and muted and blah. Chinese lanterns with butterflies hung from the ceiling. There was a fuzzy pink robe hanging from the closet hook and a dusty pink couch was streaked with sunbeams. The curtains were lace and there were several small glass horse statues throughout the available surfaces. It was uninspired decor, but he didn’t expect anything else after a single look at the girl.

What was curious was that there was decor put up already at all.

“Have you been here?” Eliot asked, turning around once and tilting an amused look her way. Because if she had, then he really had no point to being there. But she shook her head.

“They set it up for me. It’s in the school’s interest to keep me happy,” Alice said, simple and clinical. Eliot grinned at that.

“Well, now you’re saying things I halfway give a shit about,” he said, perching on her bed. He crossed his legs and rested his chin on his palm. “Tell me the deets. What do you have on our dear illustrious institution of magical pedagogy? I love a good skeletons-in-the-closet tale.”

But Alice ignored his questioning. Instead, she glanced up at him, eyes wide and mocking. 

“Thank goodness you _halfway_ give a ‘shit,’” she said, brittle and airy. “All I’ve ever wanted is the approval of a drunk manchild who cares more about style than substance.”

Eliot sneered a small laugh.

... Oh, she thought she was clever?

He’d show a bitch clever.

“Watch your step,” Eliot said, slow and poised as she began aggressively putting her books away. “I think the acclimation chamber may have missed the rather large icicle slowly fucking its way up the cavern of your—“

Alice’s hands went right to her hair and she let out a loud, frustrated noise. “Why are you still here? Is this about my family? Because trust me, wrong tree.”

“Now, now,” Eliot said, shoulders sliding forward, though he were a panther toying with food. “You have a new family. We’re a scrappy rag-tag team of underdogs, but love and magic carries us through.”

Of all things, that was the line that brought out a loud laugh from Alice Quinn. But it was bitter, spitting, and harsh. She slammed a book on the ground, snapping her neck toward him. Her hands tightened into tiny fists at her side.

“What, because magic is so wonderful?” Alice’s eyes sparked, somehow ill-equipped to pick up on sarcasm despite her own penchant for it. “Please. You have no idea what it can do. Your blasé attitude makes that clear enough.”

What a presumptuous twat.

“Poor little magic girl,” Eliot said, cutting her off with a dripping laugh. “Why, everyone knows she’s the only one who was ever fucked over by an incomprehensible force of nature.”

Her mouth clenched. “I’m not saying that.” 

But Eliot didn’t care what she was saying. “At least I have fun with it. All it’s worth really. Better than wallowing in self-pity.”

“Magic isn’t fun,” Alice growled. 

“No shit,” Eliot said, thisclose to snapping. “At best, it’s a tool. At worst, it’s a soul-sucking burden.”

“I agree with you,” Alice said, bursting out. She sounded angry, but her eyes were darting, like the conversation wasn’t going exactly like she’d anticipated. “But most people are too moronic or weak to handle it. Brakebills doesn’t stress that enough. Too many people go in far too blind. That’s what makes it especially dangerous.”

Eliot pursed his lips and set his face into a neutral mask. “And now I agree with you.”

He actually did. Only a few people knew about his own history with magic—Logan Kinnear, the breakdowns in undergrad, the way he used alcohol to dull his hair-trigger instincts as much as anything else. And by a few people, he really meant exactly two. To the rest of the world, he still projected the model of the carefree playboy, whiling away in telekinesis and glittered champagne like it was where he was born. He had no intention of changing that with this little bitchy mouse of an ice dork. 

But there was something about the way she paced angry and lost around her room. Something about the way she threw as many pointed words at Eliot as she could, barely leaving any room for breath. Something about her buzzing hysteria that evoked the slightest amount of...

Ah, what was that word Q used again?

Oh, right. 

_Empathy_.

Not that he felt so much empathy for Alice that he could ignore how unpleasant he found her. But if there was anything he understood, it was the way magic could twist itself through your soul and ventricles, and ruin everything you once thought was stable. Everything, including your own sense of worth, sense of decency, and sense of bare equilibrium in an already fucked up and chaotic world. He knew it could even destroy a fundamental sense of_ self_, if left too forgone to its own devices.

So Eliot shrugged up at her, giving the smallest and only gift he could muster: His agreement.

“Oh,” Alice swallowed. She stood shock still, chewing on her bottom lip like a piece of gum. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Eliot repeated, standing up to walk toward her door frame. He sighed and leveled her with what he hoped was a disinterested stare. “Anyway, this was a _real_ delight, Alice, but I’ll let you have at it. Good luck and all.”

“Goodbye is more appropriate,” she said, staring down at the ground. Eliot snorted. Jesus, Livejournal about it, why didn’t she? No one had time for that kind of emo horseshit. They were goddamn adults.

“Dramatic. It’s not that big of a campus,” he said, twisting his lips. “But I’ll be more than happy to pretend I don’t know you.”

But Alice shook her head, eyes turning to stone. “No. I mean, I won’t see you. At all. Ever again. I’m leaving. Today.”

Something small and sharp pierced at Eliot’s gut. His mouth was ready to saunter off with a _Cheerio then, love, don’t let the door hit your ass, _but his feet wouldn’t let him. Instead, they rooted him to the spot and all his heavy tongue could manage was: “What?”

“This—this was _obviously _a mistake,” Alice said, and began pacing around her room. She grabbed haphazard at her tchotchkes and started throwing them on the bed. Her hand faltered around one of the horse statues, before she cradled it to her heart.

“I got what I wanted from this place. It was stupid to come here.”

Eliot remained frozen for a few minutes. He watched her move frantic and wild, piling clothes and books and more horses in an unparalleled frenzy. He’d never met someone who so embodied whiplash. Cool and collected one second, biting bitch the next, skittish fawn the third. And like a paradox, through all seconds, she was also everything at once.

“Well. Ah. Alright,” Eliot said, his hand wavering over the doorknob. He could feel his eyebrows moving up and down. She didn’t look at him. “Hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Bye then,” Alice said, monotone and futzing with a fuzzy sweater. Her eyes were shining and Eliot realized they were filled with unshed tears. Fuck. Goddammit. He needed a smoke. And a nap.

But instead—

“Jesus Christ, sit down,” Eliot said, hating himself as he grabbed the yelping Alice and forced her onto the bed. She glared up at him and wrenched her arm out from his hand. “Explain.”

Alice clenched her jaw. “Why do you care?”

It was a fair question. They hadn’t exactly bonded. He stared down at her for a long moment before letting out a stream of air through his nostrils, rubbing his temples.

“Look,” Eliot said, kneeling down and placing his hands on her knees. Her face twisted through a thousand complicated emotions at the touch. “We don’t know each other. I’m definitely not sure we’ll ever like each other. But you can’t just leave. What the hell would you do?”

Alice swallowed, the line of her delicate throat spasming. “Brakebills has this program, where they set you up with a—an office job. You retain knowledge of magic but you enter civilian life seamlessly.”

“Okay,” Eliot said, ducking his head to capture her eyes. “Let’s logic through that for a minute. You say _Sayonara_ and _Fuck you_ to Henry Fogg. I understand that impulse. Point to you.”

Alice’s lips twitched like she wanted to laugh, but refused to let herself. Encouraged, Eliot pressed his fingers firmer into her knees. 

“Then you get a job in publishing or PR or whatever it is the overeducated do these days,” he said. He cocked his head. “Now, do you really think your energy will just—go away?”

“No. But it doesn’t have to be an interference,” Alice said, lip tucking between her teeth. Eliot laughed. What he was about to say wasn’t funny, but laughter still came out. Defense mechanism against the harsh truth of the world.

“Sure, that’s one possibility,” he said, flat. “That you’ll have magical power swarming inside you, but you successfully ignore it and everything goes hunky-dory. You wind up with a 401k, a nice husband from Michigan, and your happily ever after. Ta-da.”

“Or?” She asked, but she already knew.

Eliot’s eyes grew heavy and jagged in their focus. “Or it eats you alive and attacks everything true around you, without your input or permission. It gnaws at your synapses until your mind doesn’t exist anymore, not in any recognizable form.”

Alice closed her own eyes tight, her whole body shuddering for a moment. Her jaw continued trembling after she pulled herself together and stared him straight on once again. She wasn’t easily cowed. He had to give her that.

“It’s your call,” Eliot said, quiet. “But which one do you honestly think sounds more likely?”

“Maybe it’s still the lesser of two evils. Taking the chance for normalcy,” Alice said, her voice high-pitched and on the brink. “Magic is—Magic has destroyed so much. It ruined my life.”

“I know,” Eliot said, levering himself up to sit next to her. He didn’t _know_. But he knew. “Here’s the thing, though. I was being a shithead when I said we’re all one big happy family earlier. But I wasn’t totally bullshitting either. Because what’s actually useful about Brakebills isn’t the fucking classes or Henry Fogg’s eminence or the Valium-dulled mentors. It’s finding your people and knowing that you’re all in the shit together, yeah?”

“What an adorable sentiment,” Alice snorted, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Shall we hold hands and sing _This Little Light of Mine_ now?”

Eliot smiled, surprisingly soft and fond. “I changed my mind. I like you very much.”

Alice’s eyebrows twisted together along with her hands and she cleared her throat. Her eyes averted.

“Oh,” she said. “Um. Thanks?”

She sounded exactly like Quentin. His heart grew another size for her in that moment.

“Take it from me, a perennial fuck up,” Eliot said softly, ducking his head to look her in the eye. She allowed it. “Whatever it is you’re running from? It’s going to fucking find you wherever you are, wherever you go. At least here, everyone may be toxic and messy and shitty, but _they get it_. In some small measure, we all get it, Alice.”

Alice sniffed and wiped one surreptitious tear away from her face. Eliot did her the courtesy of pretending not to notice.

“Okay,” she said, straightening her posture from her torso.

“Okay?” Eliot asked, coaxing. 

Alice cleared her throat and held her head high. “Fine. I’ll stay. On a trial basis.”  


She said it like she was doing him a personal favor. That made her sound more like Margo. Eliot’s lips quirked up.

“I’m glad,” he said, chuckling. “Henry would have been very cross with me if you’d left. He’s such a worrywart.”

Alice squinted at him, slightly thrown. “You’re on a first name basis with the dean?”

“What can I say?” Eliot leaned back on his hands, cracking his neck. He grinned. “He insists on it.”

Alice blushed, like it had just occurred to her that jokes exist. Eliot grinned wider.

They sat in silence.

“Thank you,” Alice finally said quietly. “I really appreciate that you would—even after I was so—Anyway, thank you.”

“It was nothing,” Eliot said, waving his hand in an airy twirl.

She paused and furrowed her brow at him. “Sorry. But you actually still haven’t told me your name? Not-Todd?”

Eliot laughed, squeezing her shoulder once. She tensed, so he released her. But he continued to smile down. “Eliot.”

“Alice,” she said automatically, pointing to herself. Then she blushed again. “But, well, you already knew that.”

“I like the idea of us reintroducing ourselves,” Eliot said, truthfully. He leaned back on his hands. “Fresh start.”

“I like that too,” Alice said with a tiny smile, the most genuine he’d seen yet. She was endearing when she allowed herself to be. “I’m sorry I was so—”

Eliot waved her off. “Trust me, darling. You’re speaking to the King of Character Defects. I’m working on it. Ostensibly.”

“I’m working on some too,” Alice said, the shading in her bright blue eyes glinting dark for a brief moment. “Maybe we can work on them together. In parallel form. All for one, right?”

“Leave no man behind,” Eliot said, briefly nodding at her. She returned it, tentative smile growing.

Still relaxing on her bed, he stretched his arms back further, releasing his tension. What a weird morning, he mused as he stared up at her ceiling. She had solar system decals plastered throughout the expanse above along with, more unusually, a neon periodic table. With a weary and warm sigh, he started to press his fingers outward, moving to make some sort of graceful exit. But his rings clinked against one of the small horse statues. Twisting onto his side, he picked it up and held it up to the light. It glinted rainbows, like a prism.

“Horses are majestic creatures,” he said, trying to be polite. But Alice blossomed like a flower at his words.

“Thank you for saying that, Eliot,” she said, twisting her seafoam bedspread in her delicate hands. She smiled at him, bright and genuine. Her face was lovely and still. “I agree. Obviously.”

“Sure,” Eliot said. He felt his features twitch in a combination of amusement, confusion, and endearment. “Nothing like a palomino on a misty morning, right?”

The conversation was taking a too close to home turn. But the brightness in her posture and the melting ice around the crinkles of her smiling eyes was almost worth it. She nodded.

“It’s funny you say that. Palominos are actually my favorite,” Alice said, soft and warm. “They’re such delicate beauty, but you just know their hearts are wild. I feel the thrum of life each time I see one. How it’s supposed to be anyway.”

Eliot opened his mouth to respond, but found nothing but dry air. His chest hurt. So he gave her a tight smile and dipped into his vest pocket to pull out his flask. He took a long chug, never taking his eyes off Alice. Her blonde hair fell in front of her face. Impulsively, Eliot brushed it behind her ear. She blushed.

“Are you hungry?” Eliot asked, without really meaning to. “Feel like joining my friends and I for lunch?”

Alice smiled again.

* * *

Reaching the picnic clearing was a relief. It turned out having an intense conversation about the danger and hopelessness in magic juxtaposed with the beauty of human connection still didn’t exactly give Eliot and Alice a huge array of topics in common. They chatted about horses a bit more before Eliot couldn’t stomach it any longer. Then they talked about classes (one of which Eliot had skipped, oops.) And finally they fell into silence, with even his renowned social skills unable to entirely close the gap.

But Eliot had put the picnic enchantments on default, and he sighed with contentment at the sight before them. Big soft blanket, hanging twinkle lights, all of Margo’s favorite colorful pillows, and decadent brunch food. That, and the beautiful boy sitting cross-legged in the brightening sun and he was certain it was one of the best tableaus he’d set forth yet.

“Take a seat anywhere,” he said to Alice, catching Q’s attention at the same time. He sat up and shifted his palms under his legs, brow furrowing in curiosity and caution at the newcomer. “Afternoon, Q. How’d you beat us here?”

“Uh, hey,” Quentin said, raising himself up on his knees. His growing confusion was vivid. “My PA class was just a _Welcome to Second Year, gird your loins_ speech from Fogg and then early dismissal. So. Um—?”

Eliot smiled as he followed Q’s gaze to the awkwardly shifting Alice, who had sat down on a purple and green patterned Marrakech-style pillow. But she still looked like she was considering bolting into the forest and making like Nell. 

“Q, Alice,” he said, gesturing back and forth between the expert eye contact avoiders. “Alice, this is Quentin. He’s a second year too.”

“Hey, uh, nice to meet you,” Quentin said sitting on his palms. Alice offered a tepid little smile back and cleared her throat.

“When you said picnic, I definitely wasn’t picturing this,” Alice said, smoothing her skirt down. “It’s—elaborate.”

“Thank you,” Eliot said blithely, though he wasn’t certain she meant it as a compliment. Didn’t matter. He slid down and wrapped his arm around Q, offering him a brief smile as he did. Quentin raised his eyebrows in fast acknowledgement, though his wary eyes never quite left Alice.

She cleared her throat, looking between them. “So are you Eliot’s—?”

Q blanched adorably. Eliot sighed, nuzzling into his temple.

“Alas, ours is a forbidden love,” he said, squeezing closer. “Me, a prominent member of the landed gentry. He, a devout clergyman—”

But Quentin pulled away. “We’re not together. We’re friends.”

A storm cloud settled atop Eliot for the blink of a dark moment, but he batted it off with a languid smile. They weren’t together. They were friends. Both statements accurate. No reason to get pissy over facts, even if Q was a touch more ornery about it than fucking necessary in front of Alice.

Eliot lounged back against the soft blanket and twirled his hand in the air.

“I’ll never be tied down,” Eliot said, blithely plucking a grape off a cut vine. Quentin shifted again, staring down at his boots. Awkward as ever. New people always put him in a foul mood. To offset Q’s... Q-ness, Eliot gave Alice a warm smile.

“Please help yourself to the spread. More than enough to feed all of Luxembourg here, as I like it.”

Alice gave a curt nod and grabbed a plate, putting two crackers and a single block of cheddar cheese on it. It was a start.

“You do all this for just a few of your friends?” Alice asked as she sat back down, legs tucked prim under her knees. “That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Eh, thoughtful, self-indulgent,” Quentin said with an equivocating head bob. He had chocolate around his mouth. Eliot rolled his eyes and handed him a napkin. “Tomato, to_ma_to.”

Eliot shot out a quick pointer finger. “Never besmirch indulgence in my presence again.”

Alice stared at Quentin though her wide-rimmed glasses. She sniffed. “You seem to be enjoying it nonetheless.”

Quentin scrunched his brow together. “I mean, yeah? That’s not in question?”

He said it like it was a given, which sent a jolt of pleasant surprise through Eliot. Quentin often said kind things—kind and true and often more intense than a situation called for. But he rarely noticed the little things. To the point that it was actually in constant question. Vexing even. Because while he at least enjoyed the parties enough to attend each time, with his semi-permanent place by Eliot’s side, there was little indication of how much he appreciated the particulars. With his moody eyes, lined frowns, and complicated mind, it really wasn’t surprising that Quentin was hardly quick with a light compliment. 

But it was still nice when it happened.

“So, uh, where are you from, Alice?” Quentin asked, moving past the sharp moment. At least he was trying to be somewhat polite now, even if his eyes were still averted. But that went to hell when Alice sneered and her shoulders tensed.

“I don’t see how that’s your business.”

He held his hands up in surrender and backed his neck into his shoulders. “Yup. Okay.”

But when Alice glanced down, jaw trembling, Q shot Eliot a look and mouthed _What the fuck?_ He sighed and shrugged in what he knew was a vague, unhelpful response. He received a rightful glare back. But then Alice shuddered and swallowed.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, looking back up at Quentin with a shy frown. “Habit. I’m—I’m from Chicago, Illinois.”

Eliot was oddly charmed by the inclusion of the state in her answer. She valued precision. For a second, he almost lost himself enough to tell her that Chicago was the first major city he’d ever visited, unless you counted Fort Wayne, but who did? He almost told her that it had changed his life. Maybe saved it. But that would have been an entirely insane thing to say to new girl Alice Quinn of all people. So instead he refocused on the actual conversation at hand, which was going—

Well, it was going.

Quentin’s eyes brightened in that nerdy way they did sometimes. “Did you know that Chicago is called the Windy City because the politics are so ever-changing? And not because of the weather?”

Alice ticked her eyebrow. “Like I said, I’m from Chicago. So yes, I’ve heard that. Though there’s actually several potential points of origin for the nickname.”

“Oh. Right. Uh, yeah. That makes sense,” Quentin nodded. Too hard and too quickly. 

“Chicago is actually fairly windy,” Alice said, twisting her hands. “Especially through the buildings.”

“You know, I read once that, uh, that Boston is actually the windiest major city. Like, around 12 miles per hour. Um, per year,” Quentin said, twisting his hands. “Do—do you know what Chicago’s average annual wind speed is?”

Eliot leaned forward with his chin propped up, staring at Quentin with wide eyes.

“No,” Alice said with a queasy smile. “I don’t. Sorry.”

With that, blessed silence fell upon them. Alice cleared her throat and tucked her hair behind her ears. Quentin sucked his lip in and out from between his teeth, shooting Eliot pleading little looks. To be a shit, he scrunched his brow up and tilted his head, like he was confused. Quentin darted his eyes meaningfully to Alice and raised his eyebrows, firm. And Eliot shook his head, like _No comprendo_. 

The silence stretched on and on, until he couldn’t take it anymore. Taking pity on the poor, poor nerds around him, Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but found his words stolen by the most marvelous intrusion.

“How the hell are my favorite bitches on this most glorious first day?” The brassiest, bossiest voice in the world broke through the heavens. Eliot whipped his face upward, to the glorious light.

“Julia and Margo are here,” Quentin said, scrambling on to his feet. And then under his breath: “Thank god.” 

“Took your sweet time, Bambi,” Eliot drawled out, still staring into her golden queenly face. She and Julia were laughing to themselves as they came closer, but as soon as Eliot was fully in her line of vision, Margo’s face broke into the adoration. He lived for it.

As always, Bambi was resplendent, dressed in spectacular red and fuck me heels. She contrasted boldly against her girlfriend’s usual alternating tight and drapey blah black uniform. Much the same, Margo had a special order Birkin bag tucked under her arm, while Julia had some old ratty tome. It was what it was, he supposed.

“Well, some of us actually go to class every now and then,” Julia said with a smirk, charming as ever. She plopped down on the blanket across from Q, greeting him with a wink and a kick at his ankle. “Instead of sipping on bottomless alcohol all day.”

“Cheers to you too, Wicker,” Eliot said, tipping said flask her way. She rolled her eyes.

It always pissed her off that he charmed his flask to be everlasting instead of, like, a bunch of wells in Pakistan. Every time, he responded with a quip, rather than the fact that the charm only worked with small energy reserves. A million times over, he’d prefer someone like Julia think he simply didn’t give a shit. Always easier that way.

At the thinly veiled contention between the love of her life and Julia, Margo let out a laugh and squealed as she jumped in his lap, straddling over his hips. She kissed him full on the mouth and Eliot could practically feel Alice’s bewilderment radiating off her. It was one of his favorite things on earth, to confuse the hell out of anxious straight girls vis-a-vis Margo Hanson.

“So are _you_ Eliot’s—?” Alice asked, crossing her arms. Margo didn’t seem to hear her, so Eliot cupped Bambi’s face and sighed.

“She’s Eliot’s everything.”

Margo giggled again, biting his appled and smiling cheek. He bit back at her, laughing, and Alice let out a strange, high-pitched little sound. It instantly provoked Margo’s eyes to fully land right on the blushing new girl. 

Bambi smirked.

“What’s this?” She asked, gesturing in a circle with her hand, resting her chin on top of his head. “What’s happening?”

“This—“ Eliot gestured with one arm at the blonde, who looked like she was going to throw up “—is Alice.”

Margo rolled off him and scrunched her nose. “What the fuck?”

“Hi,” Alice said, with a tiny wave. Margo cocked her head entirely to the side and put her hands on her hips.

“What the fuck?” She repeated. Quentin cleared his throat.

“Alice _Quinn_,” he said out the side of his mouth with a frankly bratty emphasis on the surname. Eliot glared at him—he was being kind of a dick. But true to the script, it had the intended effect of brightening up Bambi.

“Hello, Alice Quinn,” Margo said, crawling toward her on her hands and knees. “I’m Margo. You’re very pretty. Has anyone ever told you that?”

Alice opened her mouth to respond, but only a squeak came out. Standard. Margo slid around her like a snake and ran her fingers through her blonde hair with a low chuckle.

“Ease up, Regina George,” Julia said, smacking her girlfriend’s thigh; Margo pouted, exaggerated. But Julia ignored her and reached out to Alice in an handshake offer. “Hey, I’m Julia. Nice to meet you.”

She took it. “Nice to meet you too, Julia.”

Julia smiled and Alice returned it. Quentin had always said she had a remarkable talent for making the vulnerable feel comfortable. It was apparently true.

“I actually know your Aunt Genji pretty well,” Julia said, brushing her long curled brown hair off her shoulders and over to one side. “I’ve done two of her retreats.”

The comfort dissipated instantly. Alice swallowed and shifted awkwardly on her legs. She stared off into the trees.

“Oh,” she said, her mouth trying to smile. But it came out like a disgusted grimace. “That’s nice. I guess. I don’t really know much about—That is, Genji and I haven’t really—”

But Julia was perceptive and she winked. “Not a favorite topic. Got it. No worries.”

“My family is kind of...” Alice swallowed and glanced down. She didn’t continue. Her grimace tightened and Eliot was moved to quickly change the subject. But the same impulse ended up coming from a different source.

“Hey, so, uh, um, how—how did you end up at Brakebills South exactly?” Quentin asked, stumbling more than usual. Alice seemed to appreciate it though, because she turned her full and blazing attention to Q. “And, like, why don’t I remember seeing you there?”

“I was shipped off right after my exam,” Alice said, taking a deep breath. "Phosphoromancy is a rare discipline and one Mayakovsky needed, so they didn’t waste time.”

“What’s Phosphoromancy?” Q asked with his mouth full of bread, because apparently the question was just that urgent.  


Julia elbowed him. “Work out the root of the word, Q.”

He glared at her sidelong. “Are you an elementary school teacher now? What I mean is—“

“Well, I didn’t realize a literature and philosophy major had such an _elementary_ grasp on language,” Julia said, pursing her lips and tilting her head. “Now, what’s the Greek _phōs_?”

Before Quentin could retort with a bite, Alice sighed and casually made her hand disappear.

“I bend light,” she said with a shrug. Quentin surged forward on his palms, staring at her reappeared hand with wide and wild eyes.

“Holy shit, how did you do that?”

Julia narrowed her eyes and cocked her head, suddenly taking her own deeper interest in Alice. “Well. No wonder Mayakovsky wanted to work with you.”

But Alice snorted. “You’re flattering him. He’s not that discerning. He needed literal laser precision for a battery. In exchange, he helped with—a family problem.” 

She said _helped_ like she meant _took a massive shit all over,_ which tracked with what he knew about the Siberian. Eliot himself had quite the time at Brakebills South. He definitely understood how and why many had such contentious relationships with Mayakovsky, or even hated him. But in his experience, it was mostly bluster. At his core, the professor really cared. It had been a tough week, but in the end, he and Mayakovsky had truly grown to respect each other, and parted with a handshake. As men.

Just kidding.  
  
Less than two hours into the first day, Eliot had led something of a mutiny in retaliation for Mayakovsky referring to him as _Gay boy with_ _giant nose_. The stand-off came to a head when the professor trapped him in his office and forced him to drink a potent toilet vodka. It sapped his energy in waves, rendering him a puddle of entropy. Then the two of them played multiple rounds of actual Russian Roulette with a .357 Magnum. No pun intended. A bullet had actually pierced Eliot’s skull at some point, but there must have been Horomancy involved because he survived. He still remembered the taste of exploded arteries and the smell of bone shards.

(Also, he shrunk Mayakovsky’s dick by two inches.)  
  
“A family problem?” Margo asked, nosy as always. “What the fuck kind of family problem could that frozen cumstain help with?” 

But Alice’s face darkened. For a spine-tingling moment, she looked like the most dangerous person Eliot had ever seen. “I don’t want to discuss that. It’s in the past now and I’m ready to move forward with my life.”

“Fine,” Margo said, raising her eyebrows. “Jeez.”

“But didn’t Mayakovsky—?” Julia bit her lip. “I don’t mean to overstep here, but I heard rumors about him and a female student.”

Alice sighed—her eyes flashing again—and she nodded. “Yes. That’s certainly accurate. And because of his history, he wasn’t allowed to be alone in a room with me. I mostly worked in isolation. That’s why I never saw anyone during your course last year.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Quentin asked, his mouth falling open with a wide frown. 

“That’s abuse,” Julia said, eyes dark and lips trembling. “It’s no different than solitary confinement. That’s _inhumane_—”

“It was my choice,” Alice said, her head held high. Her blonde hair dazzled under the sunlight like crystalline white sand. “The information I gleaned was invaluable. And the solution, while painful, was inevitable and brought me closure. I don’t regret my decision.”

“Fuckin’ respect,” Margo said, leaning back on her hands. Eliot was inclined to agree. But Quentin and Julia kept shooting each other furtive little glances.

“So after all that, you just…returned?” Julia asked, eyes wide and baldly concerned. “Today?”

“No, I spent time in the infirmary overnight,” Alice said, her tone warming slowly yet surely. “Most students only spend a week in Antarctica and deal with far less invasive magic. So Professor Liston wanted to make sure everything in my physical and metaphysical states were running as they should.”

“Lipson,” Eliot gently corrected. Alice snapped her fingers and nodded.

“I guess that all makes sense. But Jesus,” Julia said with another shudder. “You’d think they’d at least try to get you in a comfortable space right away after such a harrowing year.”

“Actually, the infirmary has, like, super soft pillows,” Quentin corrected. He grabbed at the strawberry jam and smothered a biscuit within an inch of its life. “And pretty glass windows for walls. Not terrible. Worse places to be.”

Eliot poured several glasses of champagne, passing them around. It had been far too sober of an event. He downed his own first glass in a single chug and poured another. It was a touch on the sweet side, meaning Bambi would hate it. He poured her red wine and switched the glasses quickly, which she accepted without even glancing his way.

“Ah, yes,” Margo said, stretching out into the sun. Her bare legs shone, lithe and lustful. “_Not Terrible—Worse Places to Be_. The Brakebills credo.”

Alice snorted a loud laugh. She smiled, shy yet wide. “That’s funny.”

Bambi nodded with a yawn. “I’m hilarious.”

“You really are,” Alice said, a touch too intensely. Margo rolled onto her side, honey slow smile spreading. “I mean—it’s just—women aren’t complimented often enough for their senses of humor, so…”

“Yeah huh,” Margo said with another bite in the air. She giggled. “You’re adorable. I kind of want to eat you.”

Alice’s eyes went wide and she sputtered, making Margo laugh and laugh. But before she could say more—teasing and batting about her new plaything—Julia firmly patted the tops of her girlfriend’s thighs and smiled. She was changing the subject.

“So. Alice,” Julia said with a sip of her champagne. “If you’re a Phosphoromancer, you must be familiar with the work of Rita Ramirez, right?”

Like a lightning rod, Alice straightened up and practically shimmered with excitement. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. I find her approach endlessly fascinating. You’ve read _Light and Shadow: An Exploration_?”

“It’s practically my bible,” Julia said, giddy and scooting closer. “She was a Knowledge Student so she sometimes does lectures for our house. I could bring you as a guest, if you’d like.”

“That would be wonderful,” Alice said, gasping and clapping her hands together once. “I have to admit, I was disappointed not to be placed with the Knowledge emphasis. But my psychic powers are nil. Unfortunately.”

Now it was Margo’s turn to sit upright on a dime. “Unfortunately? Okay. No. Fuck that. Drink your bubbly and let me tell you all about why you’re the luckiest bitch on the planet to be part of the Physical family—”

As Bambi extolled the virtues of Physical Magic to a befuddled yet polite Alice, Eliot took the opportunity to scoot back toward Quentin. After tutting a quick muffling spell, he kicked his foot and raised his eyebrows impatiently.

“So?”

Quentin held his hands out, throwing biscuit crumbs everywhere. “So—?”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Alice. What do you think?”

Quentin frowned, like he was confused. “Um, she seems fine? Sucks about Mayakovsky for sure.”

“I like her,” Eliot mused, resting back on his hands. He crossed one over Quentin’s, matching his pose, so their shoulders touched. That way they could speak in relative privacy, even under the enchantment, while the girls chatted on the opposite side of the blanket.

“Yeah, I can see that. Even beyond the Genji thing, huh?” At Eliot’s genuine nod, Q frowned deeper. “Why?”

“What do you mean _why_?” Eliot smiled, tilting his head. Quentin shrugged.

“She doesn’t seem like your type.”

“And what, pray tell, is my type?”

Quentin snorted. “Definitely not Alice.”

Eliot jostled into him with a smirk. “Some people might say you’re not my type.”

“Sure, but, uh,” Quentin grinned. Dimpletown. “I’m a transcendent force of nature. Can’t really count it.”

Eliot hummed a small laugh out his tight throat and pulled his shoulder away. God, he was cute. He was so fucking cute. The urge to tip Q’s jaw up and kiss the cheeky smile right off his face was too much. Touch made it worse. 

Weakness acknowledged. Fuck.

“I’m taking her under my wing,” Eliot declared, reaching out to his toes in a long stretch. He blinked away the last of his pounding heart. “So get on board, bucko.”

Quentin laughed again and bent over on his own torso, trying to meet Eliot’s eyes. “Under your wing? Uh, I think she’s probably good, El.”

He shook his head, curls bouncing. “At best, she has potential.”

“Potential for what? And, um, how strong is this muffling charm?”

Eliot ignored both questions. “Poor thing’s been traumatized by all the subzero temperatures and Russian asshat bullshit. She needs guidance to the land of frivolity.”

Quentin frowned and brushed his hair back with his wrist. “I guess. But is she interested in that?”

“She’s here, isn’t she?” Eliot countered, tilting his flute high into the sky, finishing his champagne. His profile was certainly elegant in the overhead light. “Like I said, I like her.”

Quentin scratched at his ear and pinched his face, sighing. “Okay, yeah, but, like? I mean, you’re not exactly someone who becomes friends with people.”

Eliot rolled his eyes and pursed his lips. “Says someone I became friends with a year ago.”

“But you didn’t actually want to be my friend.”

Eliot’s blood stopped moving.

His mouth fell slightly open, and his extremities were tingling hot. He was acutely aware of the heavy thud in his cracked chest. He blinked. He blinked again, maintaining composure. Was this—was this something they were actually going to acknowledge? And talk about? Here? Now?

“Um,” Eliot said, swallowing a gulp of too dry air. He swallowed again. He cleared his throat and shook his head, like there were cobwebs in his eyes. “What? Why would you—what?”

Quentin angled his head, eyes wide and earnest and confused.

“We’re only friends because you wanted to hook Julia up with Margo,” he said slowly. It was like he was placing down a precise code that could set off a bomb with one wrong move. “Because of the Welters tournament? It was literally the first thing we ever talked about?”

The world was in color again and Eliot laughed, dizzy. Right. Fuck. Right.

He pulled out his flask and took a long, long sip of the much harder alcohol. “Sure, of course. But what’s your point?”

“Guess I’m just wondering what the angle is here, if not Genji,” Q said with a shrug. He didn’t seem to notice anything weird as he swirled his champagne. The bubbles fizzed up angrily into a white foaming head. “Like, why is Alice so special? Compared to the tens of others you can’t be bothered with?”

Eliot considered the question, tapping his bottom lip with his flask in a metronomic motion. Calling his interest _pity _seemed unbefitting someone as forceful as Alice. There was a charm about her, a hidden softness that intrigued him as much as her clear capacity for biting meanness. But there were lots of people like that at Brakebills. They were all fucked up messes, like he’d said to Alice. But the vast majority still bored Eliot, even if he sometimes enjoyed getting drunk with them at parties. His inner circle was tiny and Quentin wasn’t off-base to question even a minor new inclusion, based on historical precedent.

“Proximity and opportunity for one thing,” Eliot answered slowly, drinking from the flask again. Alice’s cheeks flushed in pleasure at something Julia said and her nose scrunched in that snorting laugh. “I had a rare chance to talk to her in a private setting and liked what I had to hear. But also…”

He trailed off and felt the warm heat of Q’s eyes on him. “Also, what?”

Eliot took a deep breath, his lungs expanding wide in his rib cage before glancing sidelong at Q. “Alright, two minutes of realness?”

Quentin smiled, soft. “Sure. I’ll even allow three.”

“Magic fucked her up in some way,” Eliot said, speaking fast, not wanting to dwell more than he had to. “Not sure how, why, what, any of that Sherlock Holmes shit. Don’t really care about the details. But I have some experience in shitshow and I guess I feel compelled... to help.”

“Help?” Q was nothing but curiosity. Eliot was grateful for the lack of either judgment or adulation. He was always good at that.

He laid down on the blanket, back of his hand resting delicate on his brow. “I’ve learned some coping mechanisms along the way and—and no shit from you about whether they’re healthy or not, okay? What matters is they work.”

Quentin held his hands up and mimed locking a key over his mouth.

Eliot closed his eyes. “And life is bullshit and misery and all that melancholy nonsense I never talk about. Magic usually serves to make it that much worse.”

He could trace the outline of the sun in the blacks of his eyelids and could feel Q’s gentle, silent breaths beside him. Quentin didn’t respond, even though his usual defense of magic was probably swirling in his gut. He seemed to understand that Eliot needed more time than usual to get his point out. Again, grateful.

His chest thudded as he continued.

“But there’s small magics that—that can make the bullshit more bearable. Frivolous magics, party magics, if you want to call it that. My specialties,” Eliot laughed, a little sardonic, a little self-mocking. “And Alice—Alice seems like she needs that, more than most. More like how you or me or Margo need it, you know?”

There was no response except the rustling of the breeze against the papering leaves. They weren’t ready to descend yet, but the edges were curled and brittle. Margo made a butt plug joke in the background and Alice blushed scarlet. Julia cracked up.

Eliot swallowed again and levered himself up on his elbows, shrugging one shoulder in a faint movement. “That’s all.”

Quentin looked at him under a lowered brow, squinting. He ran his finger around the edge of his champagne glass and nodded, before finishing it in a single gulp. He put the flute down and it fell on its side. But instead of righting it, Quentin scratched the back of his neck and stared off, looking at Alice.

“That’s all,” he repeated with a low and incomprehensible chuckle. “That’s—yeah. Okay. Okay. I get it.”

Their eyes met and Eliot wasn’t sure if he was on land or at sea. Quentin smiled, nothing more than a muted upturn of his lips, and Eliot’s stomach swooped with something bittersweet and heady. It rose up his chest and into his throat, burning. He would have sacrificed his first born to know exactly what Q was thinking in that moment.

Suddenly desperate to liven the mood, Eliot sighed and tossed his head back. “Besides, we need a blonde. Too monochromatic right now.”

The effect was instant and as desired. Quentin rolled his eyes and blew his hair back from his face with a huff.

“Sure, Eliot.”

Just as he was about to dazzle with a retort, Margo broke their ward and grabbed at Eliot’s arm, pulling him close and into her latest story.

“Whenever you two hens are done clucking,” she said, sticking her tongue out at Q for good measure. He flipped her off with a grin. “You can come join the real goddamn party, okay?”

Eliot smiled and wrapped his arms around Margo from behind, sighing into her hair. “Anything for you, Bambi.”

She kissed his cheek and widened her eyes, excited. “Ooh. Let’s tell Alice about that time we created a bag of actual working dicks. She’ll _love_ it.”

* * *

**~**~**

* * *

** _Three Weeks Later_ **

Alice loved the story about the dicks about as much as Eliot loved the arrival of Welters season. But they all had to endure indignities now and again.

“Team,” Margo said, commanding and perfect in her pressed captain’s uniform. She huddled them in, pulling into a tight circle. She wrapped her arms around as many shoulders as her tiny wingspan could manage. She stared down each of them individually—Eliot, Q, Alice, nameless boy, nameless girl, Melanie (?), and the worst bitch on the planet, one Kady Orloff-Diaz. "Motivation time. Let's get settled."

"Go team!" Alice said, rollicking her hand up in the air. Kady looked at her like she was out of her mind. But Eliot winked at her and she smiled, pleased.

Margo's next words came out like Dilophosaurus spit. “You know the fucking drill. If any one of you goddamn anal leaking sons-of-bitches embarrasses me, I will roast your innards in each others’ blood. I do not believe in mercy. There is victory or there is a new circle hell, made for you. Capeesh?”

With a loud groan of _boredom_, Eliot took a swig of his flask. Margo slammed it onto the floor.

“If you’re drunk, you’re worthless,” she snapped. Eliot pulled a face, but dutifully tucked it into his waistband.

Kady cocked her head and put one hand on her hip. She popped her eyes, incredulous and rough. “We kicked ass and took names for the past four matches. Aren’t you supposed to, like, inspire us for the final win?”

Margo bared her fangs. “If the threat of displeasing me doesn’t inspire you, then I don’t know what the fuck would.”

Quentin frowned and nodded, like _Fair point. _Alice chewed on her lip, shooting her eyes up at Eliot like he could somehow protect her. Ha. At the same time, Nameless boy shifted on his feet and leaned in. 

“But the last team is the Knowledge Kids,” he said, namelessly. “Everyone knows they choke on the tough stuff. We should be good.”

Margo touched the side of her head like it was in pain. “Yeah, until my motherfucking girlfriend became their captain. Do you really think I would ever fuck someone who sucks at Welters? This is the fight of our lives, people. Get in line.”

With a collective sigh and another earnest _Go team_ cheer from Alice, who was trying so hard, they all walked to the edge of the board. Their arms were crossed and energy coiled in their guts. Once Margo was out of view, Eliot took another sip of his flask.

She had way too much power over him. 

("_I have exactly the right amount of power, dickweed_," he could hear her reply in his head. He blinked, reminding himself she wasn't psychic.)

(…Er?)

(No. Of course not. She wasn't.)

The game was about to start, but there was still no sign of the Knowledge Kids. Normally, they paraded in, happily cheering and waving at the spectators in the bleachers. But as each minute passed by without their presence, the more the stadium buzzed and murmured. Margo tapped her wedges impatiently, glaring up at the clock.

When it struck noon exactly, the stadium went black.

“What’s happening?” Alice asked, blue eyes barely visible and flitting in concern. Margo sighed, loudly. 

“My personal hell,” Bambi answered. She ran her hands down her whole face, pulling the skin of her lower eyelids down, down, down.

Slowly, the familiar opening strands of “Eye of the Tiger” played louder and louder in the dark, growing into a crashing crescendo. When the power chords finally blasted out—firm, clear, and shifting electric guitar—the squares on the board lit up in alternating patterns of neon. Pink. Blue. Yellow. Green. Orange. Criss-crossed. Chess board. Starbursts.

Each time a new section lit up, another Knowledge Kid appeared. And once they were all there? They began dancing. In unison. Like a flash mob. Throughout their terrible middle school choreography, they held their hands out like tiger claws and shuffled their feet side-to-side.

It was the nerdiest goddamn thing Eliot had ever seen in his life. He was way too fucking sober.

Finally, the music crashed into a grand climax and the newly appointed Knowledge Captain Julia appeared. Two black lines were painted under her eyes and her fist was in the air, pumping to the beat. As the chorus began, she slid to the front on her knees, slamming an air guitar. She bit at Margo, who was shaking with either reasonable rage or weird desire.

Either way, Eliot twisted off the top of his flask and chugged heartily. A gentle hand tapped his shoulder. With a grin, Eliot passed it to a stunned Q. They passed it back and forth, wordless, as the song kept going on, and on, and on, and—

“Jesus Wilson Phillips Christ,” Margo hissed out through her teeth. Julia started running around the board, hands flying in the air, screams and whoops ricocheting. “Can we get fucking going? Tick-tock, assholes.”

Julia wrapped up the song with a smirk and a bow. The crowd went wild.

It was game time.

Hooray.

* * *

  
Margo took a square. 

Julia took two. 

Julia took a square. 

Margo took two. 

And so on and so forth, their vicious foreplay on display for all to see. No one consented to be part of it. It was indecent.

Julia slammed her fist against her chest, as Margo put out a valiant effort, took a square, and handed the globe over to Melanie (?) with a feral yell. She was officially required by the Welters guide book to share space on the board with her teammates. Melanie threw and it landed on a square that required midnight, at sea level, on the solstice. She took the square, and a little less than half the board was gone.

“Any last words, you shit-gobbler?” Margo snarled out at Julia, in lieu of praising her teammate. 

“Please, bitch, I eat _Margos_,” Julia said, tongue between her teeth. “For breakfast.” 

“Hey, uh, I thought smack talk wasn’t supposed to be true?” Quentin murmured into Eliot’s ear. For a second, he was unsteady, a low heart curling at his spine. But he blinked it away with a huff of half-amused laughter.

“Right?” Eliot nudged him. Then he sighed, resting his elbow on Q’s shoulder. “God, I hate Welters.”

Quentin nodded, focus intense on the game. “I mean, it’s definitely a sport, with all the shitty tribalism associated. But at the same time, the exploration of circumstantial theory is actually kind of—“

_“I hate Welters,” _Eliot whined over whatever boring shit he was saying.

“Poor baby,” Quentin deadpanned. Eliot kissed his forehead, tender in his deep mockery.

“You always get me, sweetheart,” he said, chuckling as Q shoved him off with a grumble and a blush. He wished he were a better man not to indulge in flustering Quentin, but he absolutely was not. Less than a beat later, though, Margo cut off his enjoyment and thrust the globe into Q’s chest. He clutched at it in shock.

“Look alive, Coldwater,” she said, eyebrows high. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“Uh, no promises,” Quentin said, lifting a hand in preemptive surrender. Eliot adjusted his sunglasses with a smirk. He was definitely going to fuck it up.

Julia stood at the very edge of the board, hands on her knees. She stared at Quentin, unblinking.

“Stop it,” Quentin said, low and mumbling. Julia’s eyes stayed wide, though her lips turned down.

“Stop what?”

“Stop staring at me.”

Julia laughed before mock-yelling behind her shoulder. “Hey, could everyone please turn around so Q can get it up?”

Margo stepped forward, all intimidation directed at her girlfriend. She spared Q an exasperated glance. “Ignore her. Do it.”

“I will drink your spinal fluid as my victory champagne,” Julia growled at the concentrated Quentin. He widened his eyes.

“Jesus, Jules,” he said, globe hand faltering. “It’s just a game. I’m your oldest friend.”

She was unyielding. “This is Welters, bitch.”

“You were never this intense about, like, Monopoly.”

“Throw it now,” Margo said through her teeth, pointing at the timer. With a big sigh, Quentin tossed the globe and it landed on a middling level circumstance, toward the left side of the board. He tried to create a fountain of electricity, which was respectable. But he just barely fucked it up and the square remained. And by just barely, Eliot meant totally. He totally fucked it up.

Margo smacked Q upside the head.

“You’re a dick,” she said, entirely meaning it as Julia cackled and clapped her hands high in the air. Quentin rubbed the back of his head, long strands of hair bunching and tangling. He stumbled over back to Eliot’s side.

“You have heard of the Pleiades, right?” Eliot asked, unable to help himself. Quentin rolled his eyes, dramatic and bratty.

“Fuck off.”

The never-ending game continued on.

* * *

Eliot was often pithy. He talked big game about loathing things like weak pinot noirs, Todd, the majority of Quentin’s wardrobe, Todd, giraffe patterns on furniture, Todd, saxophones, Todd, and corn as a side dish like they were second nature. But in truth, he didn’t care enough about any of those things to truly _hate_ them. At the end of the day, they were jokes more than anything. He joked. He liked to joke.

That is, except about Kady Orloff-Diaz. He never joked about Kady Orloff-Diaz.

Because Kady? She was an actual problem. She was the rare person to earn the full weight of his ire, the rare person who he thought on with more than light disgust and indifference. She was a fuck up of the worst kind and it was incomprehensible to him that he still had to look at her hooligan face, day-in and day-out. Not after that everything that had gone down. After everything she’d done. After everyone she’d—

It didn’t matter.

But as much as she was The Worst Bitch on the Planet, Kady was a helluva Welters player. That didn’t mean Eliot had to like her inclusion in the stupid game, his hands clenched into fists. He watched as Kady scowled and stomped her way to the front line through the slits of his eyes. Her letterman’s jacket uniform was longer than her tiny shorts and her severe side-parted big black curls were bouncier than ever. 

She tossed the globe in a perfect arch, but it still landed in the shittiest position after the black hole center. It was on the line between two squares. When that happened, the rules clearly stated the call for an impromptu cooperative spell with a chosen teammate. And it had to be with someone who had yet to cast in the course of the current game. 

So that left Kady with only two options: Eliot or Alice.

She cursed aloud and crossed her arms tight across her chest, lines between her eyebrows deepening into her skull. For a brief second, Kady’s eyes flitted over to him. It wasn’t a stupid thought on the outset. Much as he hated Welters, he didn’t actually suck at it when forced to contribute. Except—

“Oh, I fucking dare you,” Eliot said with a laugh, jutting his hip out defensively. His flask glinted in the light and he could feel Q’s wary eyes on him. Interactions between Eliot and Kady hadn’t always gone smoothly. But this time, she wisely chose not to escalate too much. Instead, she only sneered and held a middle finger high in the air, nails short and painted black. Most importantly, she turned away.

Finally, her eyes traced over to Alice, who had been wringing her hands throughout the game. Throughout the tournament, really. When forced to play, she did little more than a tepid one-square light bendy tricks. Not exactly the big money moves anyone expected from a Mayakovsky protege, but competent enough.

“You’re up, Blondie,” Kady said, resigned. Alice squeaked, but moved forward. Her eyes never left Margo, who was miming slitting her throat with one finger and squirting blood from the veins with her other hand 

“Just send out a wave of telekinesis after I set the circumstances, okay?” Kady said, setting herself in position. “Can you handle that?”

Alice’s face flickered. “Yes.”

“Then do it on my mark,” Kady said, stretching her arms and giving Alice a lazy wink. “For the record, I’m no Margo, but I do give a shit. So try to get it right, okay?”

Alice’s eyes narrowed and she grimaced, sickly sweet. But she set herself into position.

“Yeah, Alice!” Quentin kind of yelled in a muted cheer, fist half-heartedly in the air. “You got this.”

...Oh, Q.

Alice shot a glance back at the rest of the team. In particular, she took in Quentin’s gentle encouragement, Margo’s violent threats, and Eliot’s sheer indifference in two quick beats. Her face flickered again, sharper and wider. She set her jaw and pursed her lips, turning back to Kady with something like determination.

“Wait,” she said, placing her hand on her forearm. “You’re a Battle Mage, right?” 

At Kady’s slow nod and furrowed brow, the start of a tiny smile graced Alice’s lips. “Can you break down a Fergus’s Missile Animation so that it’s a particle Möbius strip?”

Eliot and Quentin caught curious eyes. Margo’s lips puckered into a satisfied smirk, while Kady let out a coarse laugh and cocked her head, sucking in her cheeks. Alice blinked up at her innocently.

“Uh. Sure, Blondie,” Kady said, with an edge of more laughter. “I can do that. But you know if you fuck that up—"

“We’re all dead,” Alice said, matter-of-fact. She shrugged. “Don’t worry. I can _handle_ it.”

Kady blew air out her mouth and held her hands up with a grin. “Fuck it. At least it’d be a dope way to go. Casting in three.”

In three...two...one, Kady sent out a shock wave from her hands. Alice stepped forward and paused the shimmering magic in the air with delicate conductor’s hands. She stretched the chemical composition over the board like it were glittering taffy. With a sharp downturn, the loop went into the board, shaking the stadium like an earthquake. 

For a few long moments, Alice stood there, breathing in the energy. From across the room, Julia stalked her way closer, eyes narrowed and mouth turning up into a reluctant but sure smile. Eliot put his hands on his hips and felt his own breath still, as Alice slowly stretched her arms out, wide, like a diver.

She slammed her hands together. Every particle of light bent and burst into a thousand spinning halos, blinding and dizzying and denser than the universe.

“Holy shit, what the fuck?” Quentin’s voice carried over, drowning and falling apart in the cosmic gravitational collapse around them. 

It wasn’t a black hole. It was something brighter, more star-like, densely packed with atoms and neutrons and more power than any of them had ever seen. On instinct, Eliot stepped forward and slammed his arm out, palm firm on Q’s chest behind him. Beside him, Margo stepped forward, casting hands at the ready for back-up.

“Alice!” Eliot shouted, but his words were lost in the soundlessness. 

But the glowing Magician (fuck, what a _Magician_) started moving her hands, elegant, precise, and calm. If Julia’s magic was primal, Alice’s was a symphony, harmonizing and swelling and dipping in accord with the structure. With art and skill and untouchable, unfathomable talent. 

The shining white, blue, purple, infinitely colored light swirled outward. It spun over itself like a giant nucleus, tens of thousands of revolutions in each passing second. They all should have been dead in its presence, but Alice’s hands and steady breath kept it at bay, bending the gravity and the light beams to stabilize it. It could have been her small, loving pet. Finally, she nodded at Kady, who sent a final burst at the star, where it exploded into several fireworks. Each of them fell on a respective remaining square, entirely clearing the board. 

Julia’s jaw dropped and she fell to her knees.

The drums obviously announced the win. But again, like with Julia exactly a year prior, no one moved. No one spoke. This time though, the mood was starkly different. Where there had once been childlike wonderment, there was now astonishment and not an insignificant amount of fear.

Quentin was the first to shift.

He gently slid out of Eliot’s tight grip and inched his way toward Alice with wide eyes. He stared at her for a moment and swallowed, his throat shaking. He glanced up at the ceiling and then back down to the floor, before finding Julia, who was still gaping and kneeling. The silence was a heavy thing, cloaking them all as the enormity of what they’d just witnessed—the absurd, terrifying amount of power Alice had been keeping close to the vest—sunk into their cell structure.

But then Q’s face broke out in a rare, wild grin and he grabbed Alice’s hand, holding it up in the air.

“Phosphoromancy, bitches!”

One full second later, the Physical Kids and the crowd erupted in cheers. Alice turned bright red and looked over her shoulder at Eliot, who offered her a quick bow and a golf clap. Kady, in an adrenaline rush, was yelling feral and wrapped her arms around Alice, screaming _Who the fuck _are_ you? Goddamn_! before dashing off to the crowd to meet whoever the fuck was her friend these days. The nameless kids and Melanie (?) started chanting Alice’s name. Even Julia, defeated and humbled, hopped to her feet in a standing ovation.

(Meanwhile, in an elegant display of sportsmanship, Margo was running along the edge of the board pointing at each of the Knowledge Kids, jumping and screaming, “You can suck my dick! And you can suck my dick! And you can suck my dick twice, motherfucker! And you can—“)

It had been the best game any of them had ever seen. Bar none. It was electrifying and exhilarating. Eliot was going to throw the party of the century to toast the feat. Because even if it was Welters’ based, he was happy for Alice. Shy and cautious as she was, he knew it always felt good to make a mark. Searching across the board, he smiled when his eyes landed on her once again. She jumped up and down, laughing and holding onto Quentin’s arm. They kept trying to high-five but missed each other’s opposite hand in their excitement, over and over again. In turn, Q grinned breathless at her, bright and thrilled and dimpled.

Eliot swallowed and his eyebrows twitched.

With a steadying breath, he took another drink from his flask. The burning whiskey filled the inexplicable dark hole, fraying at the edge of his gut. He rationalized the sensation with another swig. It happened sometimes—ennui in the face of joy. It was especially prevalent through the fast and hard type of happiness, like a sports win or a thirty minute sitcom or a quickie. Like his body knew it was whiplash, rather than solid ground.

It was fine.

Just one of those moods.

* * *

The party descended into the Brakebills evening and a smoky, lush haze faster than usual. 

Upbeat music thrummed through the Cottage. Margo stood on a coffee table, surrounded by her usual awed audience, yelling things like _But she'll remember, with advantages, what feats she did that day. _She was roaring victorious and stomping her feet into the wood and her fists into the air. Behind her, Quentin and Julia passed a joint back and forth. They were half-hidden in the reading nook by the fireplace, giggling to themselves. They blew obscene smoke rings, with Julia favoring Georgia O’Keefe style labia. In every other nook, the rest of the world danced in pulsating waves, hopped up on adrenaline and slowly cross-fading into drunken stupors.

Even Eliot was feeling the buzz more than usual and decided to kill two birds with one stone. He’d make a caffeine-infused cocktail and check on the skittish Miss Quinn, who had long disappeared to the relative quiet of the kitchen. He'd watched her dash off from the traditional Throne of Pillows, like she'd realized exactly how much attention she’d called to herself. Her discomfort wasn't surprising, but he felt compelled to reassure her and get her back in the more important game. That is, the social one. 

But after he twisted his way through the house, stopping to chat with acquaintances and nibble a few ear lobes along the way, he stopped cold as he entered the kitchen. It was usually the quietest place during the most raucous parties and the best place to grab some alone time.

Only, Alice wasn’t alone.

“Guess you can _probably_ do a simple telekinesis spell then, huh?” Kady’s stupid voice let out a rough chuckle. Eliot gripped the door frame, hatred flowing cold. “Sorry I was such a condescending asshole.”

“You said it, not me,” Alice’s light voice replied. She was bent over in front of the refrigerator, pulling out baby carrots, raw broccoli, and ranch dressing. 

“No wonder Mayakovsky kept you to himself for so long,” Kady said as Eliot stepped fully inside. She was sitting on the counter and her eyes were zeroed in on Alice, who fixed herself a small snack plate. She offered to Kady who gave a disbelieving snort in response and a firm head shake. Alice shrugged and took a snapping bite of the raw vegetables. 

Kady slinked forward and smirked. “To be honest, when I saw you, I kinda assumed it had to do with your tits.”  


For a second, Alice froze, half-eaten carrot in hand. She whipped around toward Kady, looking like she was going to smack her right across the face. A reasonable instinct. But at Kady’s teasing smile, with just a hint of solidarity rather than mocking, Alice relaxed and raised an eyebrow.

“He’s a complex man,” she said, slyer than Eliot had heard her yet. “Perfectly capable of dual motivations.”

Kady almost choked on her drink and then laughed, surprised.

“You’re interesting,” she said, lips twisting with approval. “Can’t figure you out.”

Alice tucked her hair behind her ears and the tips of her cheeks flushed. “Not sure why you’d say that. What you see is what you get.”

“Uh-huh,” Kady said, leaning in even more. She was almost parallel with the floor. “Yeah. That’s total bullshit and you know it.”  


But when Alice’s face flared with defensiveness, Kady cocked her head to the side and gave her something like a warm smile. If such a succubus were capable of warmth.

“Not a bad thing, by the way,” she said, finishing her drink and grabbing the bottle of gin next to her. “Keep ‘em on their toes.”

Alice bit her lip and then smiled, their eyes meeting in newfound kinship.

Which. Hmm. Enough of that. Eliot cleared his throat, finally announcing his royal presence. Alice gave him a sweet smile and Kady arched a brow.

“Alice, would you be a dear and indulge Bambi?” Eliot said, taking her hand in his and kissing it. “You’re the belle of the ball and she’d like to show you off a bit.”

Not entirely inaccurate, though Margo had certainly not asked for Alice and never would. She definitely would be happy to see her. And she'd be even more happy to publicly take credit for the game winning move, referring to Alice as her mentee. Still, anything to get Alice the fuck away from Kady was a good thing. White lies made the world go ‘round.

“Fine,” Alice said, sticking her tongue out a little. "If I have to. O Captain, My Captain, I guess."

With a chuckle at her sour tone, Eliot ran a quick hand over her hair, tracing his thumb across her jawline.

“I’ll meet you out there with a cocktail to save you soon, I promise.”

At that, Alice brightened and she smiled, more resolute in her acceptance of Eliot's request. She stopped at the door and turned around with a polite smile. “See you around, Kady.”

Kady raised the whole bottle of gin in a salute. “Later, Blondie.”

Eliot wanted to tell her to fuck off. But he refrained from engaging at all. Maturity, thy name was Eliot Waugh.

After Alice disappeared into the dense crowd, the thrumming beats of the living room music pounded dull. They stretched over the otherwise chilling silence in the cavernous space. Eliot shot Kady snide smile and turned his back on the intruder in his home. He didn’t have any time for her bullshit. But Kady was never one to leave well enough alone.

“Sup, douchebag?” She asked, hitching a boot onto the counter, right where people prepared food. She rested her arm—lazy and dominant—on her knee. 

“Never let anyone tell you that charm school wasn’t worth the investment, darling,” Eliot said, refusing to look at her as he scoured the cabinets. He found his favorite mug, hidden away from the grubby hands of the plebeians. “You shine.”

“Doesn’t your whole Wildean schtick get exhausting after awhile?” Kady asked between swigs of gin, right from the bottle. “I promise I won’t tell if you feel like chilling out and wearing sweatpants one of these days.”

“See, that’s what I love about our bond,” Eliot said. He whipped up his famous frothed Irish coffee with Italian roast, bourbon, and inherent magical energy. He smirked up at her, glare as dark as he could manage. “Nothing but trust. How we can just _be_ together, you know?”

“Blah blah,” Kady said, hopping onto the floor. “Snark as a defense mechanism is kinda played out, man.”

“No snark,” Eliot said, flourishing tuts over his mug. Steam rose in perfect curls. “I adore you and your whole crude Juvenile Delinquent-meets-Second Rate Joan Jett barbarian thing.”

Kady winked. “Joan Jett’s a fuckin’ singular badass. Compliment accepted.”

Eliot took a long sip of his coffee, leveling her with the full power of his distrust and disinterest. No more games.

“How’s Marina?” He asked, lips curling upward like knives. “That’s her name, right? She still pegging you—sorry, _begging_ you for scraps of inconsequential magic?”

Pins dropped like nuclear bombs.

Kady’s jaw worked and her fingers twitched. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Now, now,” Eliot chuckled, smooth as his best drink. “Watch those hands. I had this whole place cleaned. Don’t need any more _messes_.”

“Then I’d recommend walking away,” Kady said. But she crossed her arms into herself nonetheless, like a straightjacket on an uncontrollable child.

“You’re the one in my kitchen,” Eliot said, looming. Kady scowled, swallowing hard. She stalked her way toward him until there was barely a foot of space between them.

“Here’s what it is,” she said, snapping her face up at Eliot’s. Dangerous game. “I live in the Cottage. I go to school at Brakebills. And I don’t actually owe you shit, bud. I’ve paid the Piper. You should move the hell on.”

“I don’t give a shit what the school’s stance is on your nonsense. You fuck with mine, you fuck with me,” Eliot said, even and calm. “I say when your debt’s out.”

But Kady had the audacity to laugh.

“Huh. Did I really fuck with _yours_? Sure about that? Because from where I’m standing—“

Eliot growled from the back of his throat and sneered his lip. “Get out of my sight. Now.”

Kady’s biting green eyes met his and she raised her hands in double-barrel middle fingers, backing her way out of the kitchen. Eliot stared her down, until she disappeared in the crowd. And once she was totally out of sight, he let his eyes close and ran a hand through his hair, shaking with his ragged breath.

He poured more bourbon in his mug.

* * *

True to his word, Eliot brought Alice a cocktail and rescued her from Margo’s clutches.

He started with a simple Pimm’s cup and she drank it way too fast. Then he gave her a Signature Cocktail, which she raved about for two minutes straight. Before he knew what was happening, the two of them ended up sprawled on the couch, shoes kicked off, and downing more alcohol than was strictly responsible, in a glittery, giggly haze. Eliot lit a cigarette and blew her Möbius strip rings, in honor of her glorious victory. For once, she had nothing snide to say—she clapped over and over again, laughing and shimmying deeper into the couch.

“I’m not,” Alice held her fist to her mouth and hiccuped, “I’m not an experienced drinker.”

It was unfairly endearing.

“Thank god you found me then,” Eliot said as he smiled down into her hair. She was now on her third Manhattan, after they’d joyously discovered her new love of whiskey and her abiding love of maraschino cherries. “Fate certainly brought us together.”

Alice giggled into his chest. “You’re the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my entire life. How do you exist?”

Now it was Eliot’s turn to laugh. He patted her hair with all the fondness in the world.

“Didn’t take you for such a sweet talker, Quinn,” he said, squeezing her in tight. “Keep it up.”

Alice snorted out an unladylike giggle again and fixed him with an intense stare behind her Daria glasses. She pursed her lips like she made a decision.

“Lemme try,” she said, reaching up to his mouth and grabbing his cigarette. Staring down like it was her final challenge, Alice gave a curt nod and brought it to her mouth. She inhaled once, frowned, and immediately handed it back. She coughed, gagging her neck out.

“That’s horrible,” she said, conclusively. “You shouldn’t smoke.”

Eliot meant to retort with something witty, but his eyes caught into the corner of the room. He’d assumed Margo and Julia had long disappeared together upstairs to get their battle energy out. So he was surprised at the unexpected sight of Julia and Quentin, sitting together on the daybed, deep in what appeared to be an argument.

Julia whispered forcefully, her hands gesticulating through each of her likely points. In response, Q tensed up and shot his arms out, pushing the relentless and intent Julia off him. But she curled her legs under herself and nudged her nose into his cheek, poking his side with a firm index finger. In response, Quentin snapped his face away and set his jaw into a tremble. He was adept enough at both lip-reading and their interpersonal dynamic to know he said _Fucking let it go, Jules._

Eliot frowned and considered going over, to see what the hell had crawled up their craws this time. But as he shifted, Quentin cursed again and stormed away, arms crossed and legs shuffling in his low, angry stride. Julia stared off into space, hand pressed against the top of her head. But before curiosity and concern got the better of him and wrenched him in the same direction as Q, Alice tapped his knee and stole his attention.

“So,” Alice said. She giggled, bringing her face slightly too close to Eliot’s. She was very drunk. “So, like, can I ask you a weird question? It’s super weird. So stupid.”

Forcing any thoughts of Quentin out of his head, Eliot rested his cigarette on an ashtray. He grinned and put an arm around her shoulders. “Hit me.”

“Do you—do you know any hot single people?” She asked, way too loud in his ear. “That would maybe wanna—I was in Antarctica for a _year_.”

He stared at her for a long beat as the meaning behind her words hit him. He blinked. Then, before he could help it, he sputtered out laughter that cascaded from his chest and out his mouth.

“Wait. I’m sorry,” he held his hand to his mouth and huffed out several shaking laughs. “Are you—are you asking me to help you get laid?” 

At her stern expression and short nod, Eliot fell over onto his lap, tears streaming down his cheeks as he kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing.

“I’m serious, Eliot!” Alice said, hitting his leg once. He snorted several more laughs before taking a deep breath and biting his lip, facing her head-on.

“Honeylove,” he said, kissing her hand and pulling it to his chest. He snorted again, unable to keep the giggles at bay. “Pumpkin pie. You are a hot woman. Shake what the good Lord gave you, render an unsuspecting dolt with acute cardiac arrest, and go to town, yeah?”

But Alice shook her head. “I’m not good at that.”

“Give it an ol’ college try,” Eliot said, wiping under his eyes. He cackled again. “You may be _shocked_ at your own hidden talents. Fish in a fucking barrel.”

God, he was laughing all over again. What the fuck. It was _so_ funny. He was a little drunk too.

“Eliot.”

He kept laughing. Maybe he was more than a little drunk.

“_Eliot._” Alice pinched at his side, rather hard. He made a displeased sound and met her eyes. They were wide and earnest, and he actually felt a little bad. “Look, I know myself, okay? Casual sex and I—it would be a disaster.”

Eliot cleared his throat and he sniffed, taking a sip of his drink. He cleared his throat again, shaking off any residual laughter.

“Okay, okay,” he said. He pursed his lips and looked down at her. He tried to take her as seriously as she was asking him to. “Then I’m not actually sure what you’re looking for from me.”

Alice clenched her hand around her glass, frustrated. “Look, I know I’m not easy to like, okay?”

Oh. _Oh_. His heart squeezed and he felt a protest rise in his throat. But it died in his mouth. She was too smart for any patronizing bullshit.

“You can be a bit—defensive, off the bat,” he said instead. He touched her hand, a soft caress. “Your guards are up. I get that.”

“But everyone likes you,” Alice said simply, like water was wet. Eliot laughed at that and took a sip of his drink. She was sweet. "Everyone likes you. I've analyzed this fully. That's why you can help me."

“Except your hypothesis is invalid,” he said, with a good natured smile. “Plenty of people dislike me. Even more would love to see my grand fall from social grace. Trust me.”

Alice narrowed her eyes and stared around the party, though she were searching for potential offenders. “Because they’re jealous.”

Jesus. Thank fuck Q wasn’t around for this conversation. He’d never hear the goddamn end of it. The slack-jawed groans of _Oh, holy fuck, don't _say_ shit like that to him_ rang clear as a bell in his minds' ear.  


Eliot patted her knee and sighed. “You’re being very good to my ego.”

Alice smiled lightly and ran her pink fingernails up and down her skirt. “Here's my thought process. Many people like you. You...like me. So maybe you could—you could introduce me to someone who would give me a chance because you like me. I’ve been alone for a long time.”

Damn if that wasn’t almost the most heartbreaking thing Eliot had ever heard. He sighed, running his hand through his hair with little thought toward his meticulous styling.

“You mean, like, a boyfriend or something? Love or some shit?”

Alice’s nose twitched. “Or something. Or some shit.”

Eliot clenched his jaw and shook his head.

“I’m not really—“ he cleared his throat and stared off at a fixed point in space, a strange darkness weighing heavy on his chest. He chuckled, sardonic. “Monogamy has never historically been my thing. I’m not sure I’m your best bet here.”

“Look, if you help me? If you set me up on _one date_ with a friend of yours?” Alice said slowly, twisting the pleat of her terrible skirt in her hands. “Then I’ll introduce you to my aunt. As a recommendation. For her winter retreat.”

Eliot considered it for a long moment. He could already see himself shipping off to the Canary Islands, with untold magic and champagne showers both at his easy disposal. It would be decadent, lewd, ecstatic—everything he wanted out of his deep thrusts towards the heights of all life had to offer. Really, he’d be a stupid, stupid man to refuse, especially when so politely and freely given.

But.

Alice sniffed again, looking straight down into her glass. "I've been alone for a long time."

Shit. 

“How about a counteroffer?” Eliot said, placing his ringed hand over Alice’s fidgeting. She shot her eyes up under her worried brow and through her big-rimmed glasses. “How about I help you because we’re friends? And friends help each other?”

Her face burst into sunlight.

“That would be really nice, Eliot,” Alice said, scrunching her shoulders up to her ears. “I don’t have a lot of… Or really any… Well. That would be really nice.”

Goodness. What a love dove she really was underneath it all. He traced his finger across the line of her jaw and chuckled. Then he set his face quite seriously and looked down at her from his full height.

“If we do this, though, we do it my way, understood? No compromises,” Eliot said, only half-joking. Alice took it as entirely earnest though because she sat up straight and nodded. She was eager and ever the consummate student. Eliot liked her so much more than he thought he would.

He put on thoughtful face and tapped his chin. “What kind of people have you dated in the past?”

“Um, it’s been mostly—men, I guess,” Alice said, snuggling into Eliot, though her eyes darted. Intriguing. “Men with sweet smiles who do their homework every night and take me on dates.”

“That sounds nice,” Eliot said before he could stop himself, something sharp catching between his ribs. Alice rolled her eyes.

“I guess,” she sighed again. “But really, Eliot, I trust your judgement. Whoever you think I might like. Or who might like me. I'd appreciate it so much.”

Oh. Well. Um. O...kay. Eliot shook the drowning water out of his ears and decided to bypass over that. Instead, he nodded and entwined their hands, ideas percolating wildly in his fast mind. A vision of a soft-spoken, nice smiled boy-next-door with a Brakebills' degree danced in his head. Oh. That could be...perfect? Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth and smirked.

“I think,” he said, with a disbelieving laugh, “that I actually may have someone for you.”

And Alice smiled, yet again. He could get used to that. But just as he was about to say as much, he noticed her tense slightly and glance up above them, her eyes and lips frowning. Eliot followed her gaze upward at the intrusion. His own reaction was the exact opposite—he smiled. Warmth swirled in the base of his stomach, fuzzy and cozy, like a hearth steaming mulled wine.

“Hey stranger,” Eliot said lazily to Quentin, who waved back with an unlit cigarette resting between his fingers. Alice frowned deeper. “Where have you been all night?”

Q sighed and gesticulated around the room, frustrated. His eyes were wide and endless. “You know. Here and there. Talked to Julia for awhile and she was being—well, _Julia_. You know.”

Eliot grinned. “Fuckin’ Julia.”

Quentin raised his eyebrows and rubbed at his nose with the back of his wrist. “Anyway, I was going to see if you wanted a smoke break, but you’re, uh, busy, so—”

But before Eliot could jump up and say that yes, _yes_, he wanted to take a smoke break with Q, Alice beat him to the punch and abruptly stood up, her hands on her hips.

“Quentin, you shouldn’t smoke!” Alice yelled in his face. Her cheeks were bright red. 

Oh.

She was _extremely_ drunk.

“Uh, I mean, what?” Q glanced back and forth between Eliot and Alice, with particular interest at the ashy cigarette dangling from Eliot’s lips. He shrugged.

“You really shouldn’t,” Eliot said, just to be a dick.

Quentin rolled his eyes and brought the unlit cigarette up to his ear, about to tuck it there for safekeeping “Yeah, okay, sure.”

But Alice slapped at his forearm with the same ferocity. His cigarette bounced out and onto the floor, and Q bent down to pick it up with a muttered _Shit._

“You should listen to Eliot more!” Alice shouted down at his crouched head before settling back against him with a huff. "And be nicer to him!"

“You're my dream girl,” Eliot said, smiling down at the steaming, lovely, charming, incredibly intoxicated Alice. “We are going to have a great time.”

She giggled, breathy and completely folded over onto Eliot’s lap. It was so very, very charming. His own tipsiness tickled his pleasure center and he was overwhelmed with the desire to pull Q into their cuddle pile. But instead, Quentin sighed and rolled his eyes, stepping out of reach.

“This is hell,” Quentin said, putting the cigarette back in his mouth and shaking his head as he walked away. “I died and now this is hell.”

Laughing hard, Eliot leaned into Alice conspiratorially and spoke just loud enough for Q to hear, “He’s _so _dramatic.”

His middle finger went up right on cue and he disappeared toward the patio. About to bid her adieu and head out to Quentin's side, Eliot stroked Alice’s hair, twining the soft strands between his fingertips. In response, she snorted and buried her face against his collarbone, giggling at nothing and nonsense.

Okay.

Q could wait a few more minutes.

* * *

tbc.


	3. Much Zeal, Little Knowledge

** _Brakebills University, October 2016_ **

_*_

**(Part Two of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: He’ll Catch You a Motherfucking Catch)**

* * *

Eliot would rather die than wax his chest hair. He preferred Basquiat to Delacroix. The best sex of his life had been in a piss-soaked Metro station. He was sublime with many interruptions.

He was a debauched hedonist who valued meticulous planning. He was witty and charming, angry and aloof. He was larger than life. He was subtle. He was a diplomatic tyrant. He made his home in the margins of society and he thrived at the top of the food chain. He was a genius who never read. He was an aesthete who fucked shit up. He looked good in both silver _and _gold. He found Oscar Wilde a touch overrated.

He reveled in shock and awe, and in righteous fuck you’s to any and all assumptions, especially about himself. He liked to surprise people, to catch them off-guard. “Eliot would never” was his cocaine. Gasps were his heroin. There was nothing better than flipping expectations on their cherry red little heads. It was poetry dunked in champagne. It was a fistfight in finery. So in the same vein—

Eliot didn’t give a shit about his birthday.

Every year, Bambi threw herself the blow out of all birthday blow outs. Most recently, she'd orchestrated a true bacchanal, complete with sex ritual wine and mandatory nudity. Between the two of them, Eliot was the more theatrical and decadent, so the clear expectation was for his celebration to always outpace hers. But honestly, Eliot would always be content to let his life anniversary pass by without any notice at all. Well, except with a single glass of midnight champagne and a slow hand job. Anything else was a nice bonus, but inconsequential. Appreciated, but more endured than enjoyed. 

But for his 25th birthday, Eliot made specific plans to celebrate. True to his lack of interest, he still didn’t want a big fuss. Instead, he planned a simple sojourn into the city for edomae sushi and great sake. Though he still made sure he found a restaurant that served, like, salmon rolls or whatever. Goddamn Q was so unadventurous and bitched for a week after trying uni that one time ("It tastes like fucking _ammonia_, Eliot"). Never again. Then, the small group would head to his favorite bar in the city, for copious drinks and dancing. Tame, maybe. But the evening wasn’t actually for him.

It was for Alice.

No one liked an actual blind date—even the best ones were so very awkward. But a small birthday gathering was the perfect excuse for the right atmosphere. Intimate and casual, with tucked away corners and more than enough potential for alchemical sizzle. For two weeks, Eliot planned and maneuvered, getting every detail suited for that exact goal. And now, the day had arrived. October 8th in all its World's Greatest Blessing glory. He made himself a morning gin martini and took an extra long hot shower. Then he sent a forbidden on-campus email, re-confirming the addition to the tiny and exclusive guest list. It officially included only himself, Bambi, Q, Julia, Alice—

—and Mike McCormick.

“Mike McCormick? Are you fucking joking?” 

Quentin’s voice had no inflection except unimpressed. 

Eliot shot over an unamused glare and refilled their martini glasses with a tetchy sigh. He hadn’t expected claps and hoorays, but he at least expected Q to see the fucking _logic_ in the idea. Plopping a couple of extra olives in Q’s drink, he took a long sip and raised his eyebrows.

“Mike McCormick,” Eliot confirmed with a smile around the chilled rim. It was perfect. The vermouth in particular was magic without magic. The mid-morning Saturday air was crisp with enhanced autumn. The breeze smelled like nutmeg and the leaves were fire-orange against the brilliant sky. It was a lovely morning and sourpuss friends weren't going to ruin a damn thing. 

Quentin squinted, frown moody in the golden light. “What would Alice have in common with Mike McCormick? She’s smart.”

Eliot mock-gasped and swirled his cocktail. “Snob. Coastal elite.”

“The last time I saw him, he talked my ear off about the Texas Revolution,” Quentin said, bone dry. “It was so fucking boring. I considered memory-wiping everything I know about the Alamo, out of spite.”

Eliot shrugged. “Pretty trumps interesting.”

“Jesus. He’s not that pretty,” Quentin said, grumbling into his fingernails. Eliot rolled his eyes. Mike was that pretty and Q knew it.

Mike McCormick was a Brakebills alumnus, about two years out from graduation. He’d been a third year when Eliot was a fresh-faced dorm dweller, wide-eyed and dick-starved. But more importantly, Mike was a broad-shouldered, homespun Texan hunk. A beer drinker with a love of jean jackets, the Dallas Cowboys, and Dave Matthews Band. Since graduation, he had worked in some Magician public relations shit with a political science slant. Probability and governance magic. Mike's discipline was actually portal creation, which proved helpful for his personal ambitions. He spent all his time back and forth between NYC, DC, and Lubbock, in open secret preparation for a muggle Senatorial run in 2024.

Apropos of nothing, Eliot had desperately wanted to fuck him the first time they met. 

He was hot—actual _hot_-hot, unlike the majority of the sweet yet potato-faced boys that populated Brakebills. But alas, Mike had dated a squeaky-voiced mascara commercial named Courtney for years. After the disaster that was the Brett incident—involving a diving board, some ketamine, and a pissed off drag queen, _oh my_—Eliot had decided the thrill of fucking other people’s boyfriends wasn’t worth it anymore. Not that Mike had ever shown any interest anyway; he was monogamous at best, entirely hetero at worst. So friendly acquaintances it was then, and they had circled each other's social lives ever since.

Last Eliot had heard though, Mikey and Court's romance was kaput, along with the "joint" part of their joint five-year political plan. Poor, poor Mike was heartbroken, reportedly desperate and terrified that he’d never find love again. It was dramatic, but Eliot liked dramatic. And in particular, Alice seemed like exactly the kind of sweet, smart, beautiful, and blonde Girlfriend 2.0 upgrade that Mike was seeking. He’d be on his knees thanking Eliot for years, if only for the opportunity. 

But even after explaining his perfect rationale and plan to Quentin _twice_, the nerd was unmoved. Instead, he rolled his eyes and set his jaw at its usual pettish angle. He tapped his fingers against the wooden arm of the patio chair and kicked his feet up onto the edge of the table.

“Like, just because you’re into beefcakes doesn’t mean Alice is,” Quentin said, averting his eyes. 

Eliot nearly spit out his martini, like a choreographed lampoon. He cough-laughed and patted at his chest, rings clinking against his waistcoat buttons. “I’m sorry. _Beefcakes_?”

Q sighed and slunk down in his chair. “You know what I mean.”

“No, please elaborate." Eliot sat up straighter and loomed with twinkling eyes. He felt like the cat who got the cream. 

Quentin shook his head, palms over his brow. “I mean, like, maybe Alice would prefer someone she can actually talk to. Or has a personality other than Don’t Mess With Texas. Or, I don’t know, can make her laugh.”

The cream was a touch rotten. He swallowed, lips sharp along his glass. “Well, she’ll decide.”

“Yeah, but did you consider any of that or was _pretty_ your only criteria?” Quentin asked with a shock of bitterness. Eliot chuckled over his own tiny niggle of anger. He cleared his throat and smirked.

“Of course not, Q,” Eliot said, fluttering his lashes. He tilted his head. “I also factored in his _massive cock._ See, we all went skinny dipping one time and Mike is, wow, he’s a real salami sandwich and a beefcake to boot. Fucking huge and—“

Quentin held up his hands. “Yup. Fine. Sarcasm registered.”

He narrowed his twitching eyes. “Sarcasm? I’ve never heard the word—“

“El,” Quentin cut him off again, smiling a little. “I got the message.”

Eliot dipped his head and put his glass down. He crossed his legs and wrapped his hands around his kneecap, leveling him with a serious look. The round knees of Q’s jeans peaked like mountains behind the tips of his black boots, still pushed into the table. His navy henley was disheveled and soft. His long hair was all askew and his smile grew. It was hard to stay annoyed at him for long.

“I wouldn’t throw Alice to the wolves, vicious or boring, okay?” He said, leaning back on one arm and lifting half his mouth into a smile. “I’m not saying Mike will be the love of her life. But she wants to get her feet wet, among other things, and they’re both—nice people. That’s a start, right?”

Quentin grinned full and droll. He shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Nice is underrated, I guess.”

Eliot sighed, airy and dramatic. “For some people.”

“For, like, the well-adjusted.”

“For people who eat their vegetables _every day_.”

“For less fucked up fuck-ups than us,” Quentin said with a flourish, declarative and laughing. He held his glass aloft and Eliot cheers’d him, delighted. 

But then Q’s expression turned thoughtful. “Though I wouldn’t say _nice_ is the first way I’d describe any avowed Republican. Even, like, a so-called economic conservative wants to—uh, you know, dismantle social programs, right? And that leads to the inevitable disenfranchisement of vulnerable—“

Eliot pierced him with a playful glare. “I will throw my martini in your face if you make me talk about politics.”

“Yeah, right,” Quentin scoffed, eyes shining. “Like you’d ever waste the booze.”

“For the sake of punishing your brattiness?” Eliot smiled bright. “Try me, Coldwater.”

Q sat up, slow and suggestive onto his elbows. He waggled his eyebrows. “Hey, by the way, how’s your thesis going?”

Eliot laughed, loud and strong. “You are such a fucking shit.”

But as Quentin kept grinning that perfect grin and playing with too many kinds of fire, Alice skittered her way out the sliding patio door. He was spared a gin and vermouth shower for her presence alone. Lucky bastard. Tucking her hair behind her ears and adjusting her glasses, she cleared her throat to announce her presence.

“Hi,” she said, nodding at Eliot. He sent her an air kiss. Then she tensed, eyebrows twisted in knots as she noticed Quentin was there too. “Oh. Hello, Quentin.”

“Hey Alice,” he said, hand waving and eyes kind. “How are—“

“I need to steal Eliot away,” she said, the words tripping over themselves in her haste. Quentin chuckled and shook his head.

“Well, uh, you can’t steal what’s given,” he said, nose scrunched in Eliot’s direction. Alice smiled, tepid in her nonverbal response. She glanced back and forth between them. But Eliot licked his lips and exhaled a laugh.

“Baby, you’re so good to me,” he said, flashing a smile at the sky. Quentin retorted with an inevitable middle finger and an even bigger grin than before. He was so damn cute.

“You flip people off a lot,” Alice said, cutting into the silly and unhelpful thoughts brewing in Eliot’s brain. She was monotone, tilting her head like she was studying him. Quentin shrunk down into himself. 

“Yeah. I guess. Sorry?”

Alice shrugged. “Try mixing it up sometime.”

Quentin blinked three times. “Oh. Okay. Thanks for the feedback.”

Eliot muffled laughter into his rings and stood up. He patted Q’s dejected head as he nodded at Alice.

“You’re the hero we deserve,” he said, extending his hand to her. She took it with a smile. “I’m at your leisure, my dear.”

With a sharp, curt nod, Alice tightened her grip on his hand and tugged him inside, determined.

“Uh, bye?” Quentin’s voice followed them, his hands almost certainly flying up in exasperation.

Eliot grinned.

* * *

Alice clicked her door behind them and walked her tiny toe-first strides to the center of the room. She took a deep breath and pressed her palms down on her skirt, like she was steadying herself.

“I didn’t want to ask this in front of Quentin,” she said, hesitating a little. “I’m sure he already thinks I’m the most pathetic person on the planet, so no need to add fodder.”

Eliot startled at that. “What? Never.”

Alice gave him a disbelieving look and huffed as she paced in a small circle. “Don’t patronize me. It’s obvious he thinks so.”

“No, I’m serious,” Eliot said, quiet and firm. He lowered his brow. “_You’re pathetic_ isn’t part of Q's vocabulary. Least of all directed at you.”

He didn’t hesitate for a second. Quentin “Thanks for the Feedback” Coldwater would be devastated that talented and kind Alice ever worried that he thought something so harsh about her. For all his mousiness and frown lines, Q was a champion for the true and decent beating heart of all humanity. His was the most open and hopeful soul Eliot had ever known, even if he hid it wrapped in layers of cynical flannel. He believed in people, maybe as much as he believed in magic.

(Of course, Quentin didn’t always extend the same courtesy to himself. But that was an issue for a different day.)

“Well, either way, this is a private question,” Alice said, swallowing to ease her shaking hands. “I need your full attention and sworn confidence.”

Eliot sat on her bed and crossed his legs, curious and concerned. “You have it. What’s up?”

She frowned and popped her eyes open, wide and trembling. She bit her lip again, a nervous tic he’d have to try to break her of once they knew each other better. She sucked in a high-pitched breath.

“Is this okay to wear tonight?” Alice asked, words flying with spittle. She twirled in a short and anxious spin. 

Alice was in a black and white high-necked baby doll dress with a Peter Pan collar. She buttoned her lacy sweater with tiny embroidered beads from top to bottom. Then she finished the look off with opaque tights and her signature Mary Janes. Eliot sighed. 

She bit her thumbnail, working at a jagged edge. “I think this is the nicest outfit I own.”

“It is nice,” he said, stretching one edge of his lip down toward his chin in a slight wince. “You know. For a business casual brunch.”

“So that’s a no,” Alice puffed air out her mouth. Then she searched his face with her big blue eyes, beseeching. “Can you help?”

“I’m afraid that my expertise on fashion mostly-slash-only extends to myself,” Eliot said, stretching his long arms to put his hands on her shoulders. “It’s my worst quality as a Gay Best Friend.”

“That’s not—” Alice’s mouth pouted into a perfect circle. “I don’t think of you like that. I think you’re wonderful for many—”

“Breathe,” Eliot chuckled. _Wonderful_. She was sweet. “I’m teasing. Except that I don’t know any useful shit about women’s wear.”

She flopped down on the bed, face falling in frustration. “Then I’m out of options.”

“Well, no. Not necessarily,” Eliot said, scooting closer to her. Taking her hand, he opened his mouth wide and chose his next words with care. “I happen to know someone who knows everything about dresses, hair, makeup, you name it. And they would be more than willing to, ah—_help. _If… you’ll allow.”

He slid his eyes to her, ripe with intensity and meaning. Alice’s shattered and widened in fear. She made a tiny gulping sound when she swallowed. 

“Oh god.”

* * *

Margo sunk to the floor on her knees, hands catching Alice’s face like a vice. Her pink tongue darted between her lips as she ran her thumbs along every groove she could find. It was like she was sculpting clay.

“I’ve been waiting for this day, Alice,” Bambi said, pursing her lips, eyes bright and maybe a little turned on. Alice shuddered out a breath, jaw tightening.

“Let me guess, I’m your Everest?” She spoke deprecatingly, nervously, bunching the fabric of her skirt fabric in her palms. But Margo narrowed her eyes and let out a sharp laugh.

“No,” she said, chin tilting up. “Quentin is my Everest. You’re a minor Rockie at best.”

Alice twisted her mouth to the side. “I’m—not sure if that was a compliment or an insult.”

Margo ignored her. She flicked her fingers at Eliot in a command. “Put on _Material Girl._”

“Really?” Eliot pulled a face, taking a swig of his flask. “Isn’t that a bit on the nose?”

She whipped back at him. Her big brown eyes widened, glamorous and potent. “Do I fuck with your processes?”

He smirked. “Constantly.”

“Then you know how annoying and disruptive it is,” Margo said, matter-of-fact. She snapped her fingers and turned away from him, the unwelcome servant. “So Madonna. On repeat. Now.”

He was always a sucker for his Bambi. Eliot obliged with a clap of his hands and Margo slid into self-satisfaction. She got to work cleanly and quickly, holding different outfits up to Alice. She rejected each one with the decisiveness of a practiced world leader. She tutted her way through so many makeup looks so quickly, it almost literally made Alice’s head spin. And Eliot enjoyed the show from Margo’s bed, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off, and flask perched permanent between his fingers.

Putting the finishing touches on a winged eyeliner… thing, Margo twisted her fingers down the blonde hair before her. She sighed, mewling and heated. Alice turned pink. “Now then, let’s get these poor neglected strands into a buoyant wave, hm?”

“My hair doesn’t hold curl,” Alice said and Margo snapped out an exasperated face.

“Not even under a charm?” She asked, hands on her hips. Alice raised a tiny edge of her lip.

“I’ve never tried,” she said, sitting up straight. “I prefer endeavors of worth.”

Margo ticked an eyebrow. “You’re testing me.”

“Sorry,” Alice said, chastened. And terrified. Mostly terrified. Margo kept her eyes cool, burrowing down under Alice’s skin and into her blood. She tilted her head and ran her tongue over her teeth. Then she smiled, perky and girlish.

“So Mike McCormick, huh?” Margo said, affecting a sweet and exaggerated lilt. She flicked her eyes up at Eliot. He shrugged. “I can see that, I suppose. Excited?”

“Are you asking me or Eliot?” Alice asked, dry. Margo actually laughed at that, before swirling the blonde tresses into perfect loose ringlets with zen like focus. “I’m trying to be open-minded. I’ve considered it from several angles and determined there’s no reason not to at least meet the guy.”

Margo smirked. “The passion in this room is so _heady_. Did I step into a Harlequin?”

“You don’t strike me as a romantic,” Alice said, twisting her head around to look at Margo. She received a forceful neck snap in response, keeping her facing forward. “Even with Julia you’re fairly—“

“Vicious? Apathetic? Disdainful of monogamy?” Margo nodded. She pinned up the curls on the side of Alice’s temples with a quick swooping popper. She looked stunning. “Relieved to know I’m keeping the brand alive.”

That she was. In, you know, a Terri Schiavo sort of way. 

Bambi was so desperate to pretend it had a fighting chance. As though occasionally fucking some trembling first year with Julia’s wholehearted and cloying support was the same as her glossy dick-eating glory days. But Eliot didn’t care. If Margo was happy then Eliot was happy and then they were all fucking happy. The end.

“I, for one, appreciate Quinn’s pragmatic approach,” Eliot said, downing his flask. The weight of it refilled against his palm and it was a visceral comfort. “If she’s not going to get her rocks off with randos, then it’s better to go to another extreme. Ice queen discerning.”

Alice’s lips twitched. “I’m not an ice queen.”

Eliot waved her off with a coo. “I know, darling, it was for effect.”

Margo pulled Alice up into a standing position and circles her around. With three tuts, Alice’s face and hair was back to its original blank slate. Bambi squinted, like an artist to a canvas that had a tiny smear of shit on it. “Glasses. How crucial?”

“Depends on where you rank working eyesight in your priority list,” Alice said, crossing her arms over her chest. She worked her jaw several times and glared the cold blue of her steely gaze into Margo’s endless golden brown inferno.

“Not that fuckin’ high,” Bambi said, taking three steps back and holding her hands up in a frame, determining Alice’s angles. “Glasses make some girls hotter. They make you look like a bitchy snow owl.”

“I’d look incredible in glasses,” Eliot mused aloud. Partially to cut the tension. Mostly because it was true. It grabbed Margo’s attention—she gasped and nodded, slow and fervent. But Alice’s face still darkened, spine-tingling. 

“I like my glasses.”

“Do you want my help or not?” Margo snapped. Madonna kept crooning nasal over a pounding beat in the background. _‘Cause the boy with the cold hard cash is always Mister Right. _“You’re hot, but you’re determined to make sure no one knows it. Doesn’t give me much job satisfaction.”

Alice flushed hot, squeezing her fists tight. “I’m not _determined_—” 

“How opposed are you to push-up bras?” Margo asked with a sigh, like she already knew the answer. Alice ground her teeth, eyebrow ticking up.

“Entirely,” she said, firm. But when Margo opened her mouth wide to wail _I told you so_, albeit in some vicious translation of the cliche, Alice cut her off. “Not because I’m a prude about my body, but because they hurt. Comfortable bras are a nonnegotiable for me. Sorry.”

Margo pinched her lips tight. “Even with a spell?”

Alice shook her head. “Principle of the thing.”

“Ugh. Fine. We’ll make due,” Margo said, rolling her eyes. She snorted, incredulous. “And FYI, you’re a total prude about your body.”

Alice swallowed. “Well, it’s my body.”

“I said _fine_,” Margo spat, sticking out her tongue all temper. With a complicated tut over her own hands, several pieces of clothing popped into her arms. She held out a loose and skimpy black jumpsuit and thrust it into Alice’s hands by the hanger. 

“Here. This is the one. You’ll look like a dish,” Bambi said, leaving no room for argument. She held her head like she had a migraine with her eyes closed. “Report back at T-minus-one hour for hair, makeup, and accessories, got it? And you choose right now: No glasses or a fucking push-up bra.”

Alice shifted on her feet and swallowed, pride a visible ball in her throat. “Very well. I’ll wear my contacts.”

Margo’s eyes popped wide open, wild and furious. “You have contacts? Get the fuck out.”

“I don’t like them much,” Alice started to protest. “They’re itchy and—”

“No, I meant that literally,” Margo pointed at her door, shaking. “Get the fuck out of my room and don’t come back until you’re ready for hair and makeup. Jesus Christ. _Contacts._ You’re going to give me a fuckin’ hernia, Elsa.”

Alice jerked her nervous eyes to Eliot. He simply shrugged and blew her a kiss. He didn’t make the rules. With one last furtive look at an entirely not-fucking-around Margo, Alice sighed and shook her head. She held the outfit close to her chest as she stomped out of the room.

There was a long beat of silence.

Bambi dragged herself—elegant and slinky—across the length of her room, smoothly closing the door behind Alice. She set a privacy ward and looked back at Eliot over her shoulder. She was wearing an off-the-shoulder sweater and minuscule skirt, lips full and pouting and painted. She was the sexiest woman alive. She spun all the way around and leveled him with the full weight of her doe eyes, hands on hips.

“So,” Margo said, in that dangerously casual voice of hers. Her head cocked. “When are you gonna tell me what the shit all this is about?”

Eliot snorted, but avoided that fire gaze. “Can’t we enjoy a makeover sequence for the sake of it anymore? What have we become?”

“It’s weird, El.”

He said the most devastating thing he could think of. “You sound like Quentin.”

“Broken clocks,” Bambi said with a shrug. But she narrowed her eyes. “Are you trying to turn her into a little Margobot or something? I know I haven’t been around as much—“

“Jesus,” Eliot said with a scoffing laugh. He looked up at her, serious. “Contrary to popular belief and admittedly most laws of the universe, not everything is about you.”

“Then what is it about?” Margo demanded again, collarbone jutted. “Because it sure as fuck isn’t Alice.”

“What the hell?” Eliot crossed his arms. His flask fell with a soft thump on her comforter. “It’s not that sordid. She asked me to set her up, I did. The end.”

“So you’re a fuckin’ Yenta now?”

Eliot sat up and narrowed his eyes. “Why is this pissing you off?”

Margo’s face softened, nearly imperceptibly, and she sucked her cheeks in between her teeth. She held her hands in front of her and stretched her fingers out and in, out and in.

“I’m not pissed off,” she said, keeping her eyes firm on his, like a challenge. She swallowed once and charged onward. “Honestly, El? I’m—worried. You seem a little aimless right now, baby.”

She may as well have taken a piss in his hair pomade. 

He threw himself off her bed and stormed over to her wardrobe. He slammed open the top of her jewelry box and set to work on her necklaces. She always threw them haphazard in the top drawer, with absolutely no care as to whether the delicate strands tangled together. He worked his long fingers over each of them, releasing the knots and levitating each one up and over, before dropping them in their proper place. She never gave a shit about anything’s proper place.

“Okay,” Margo said slowly, taking methodical steps up behind him. Her cool hand rested on the nape of his neck. “Okay. Honey? It’s never a good sign when you start rage organizing. Talk to me.”

“If you actually took care of your shit, I wouldn’t have to,” Eliot snarled back. He flicked his index and middle finger over a gold and ruby Tiffany heart pendant. “You have so many beautiful pieces, but it’s like you don’t take pride in them, like you take it all for granted—”

“Jesus Christ, Eliot,” Margo laughed, but her fingernails dug into his curls. “Cut the fucking histrionics and tell me what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” he said, swallowing. His throat clenched and his eyes darted all along her jewelry. “You’re the one reading into shit.”

“Sweetie,” Bambi pulled on his arm and tried to spin-drag him around to face her. He didn’t budge. Undeterred, she twisted her body to force eye contact. “You can bullshit everyone else, but I know things have been different. You’ve been different. Ever since—”

“Finish that sentence.” Eliot snapped up, glowering over his shoulder. She wanted eye contact? She got it. “Let’s see how it goes for you.”

Margo laughed, creaky like an old wooden rocking chair. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?”

“It has nothing to do with that anyway,” Eliot said, flipping around and looming over her with his full height. She squared her shoulders. “I’m bored, Margo. Like you said, you’re never around anymore, always off with your little—“

“Don’t you dare give me shit, asshole,” Margo snapped from behind her teeth, pushing him into her dresser. The scalloped edge bit into his lower back. “Not about Julia. Not now. Especially not when you could be happy too and you’re choosing not to be. I’ve given you a lot of time and space, but my patience is getting pretty fuckin’ thin with your pity party.”

Eliot laughed, hollow. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know.”

He didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead—

“So now you equate happiness to being in a goddamn relationship?” He laughed, dark, knowing exactly how to carve Margo’s particular quick down to its shivering entrails. “How _ordinary_ of you.”

But Bambi didn’t bite. “Eliot. I know. You know I know.”

Eliot worked his jaw and slit his eyes over to her. “Here’s what I know, _Margo—_“

But Margo didn’t let him finish. She let out a loud strangled scream and put her fingers to his lips. For a few seconds, she trembled, swallowing like she was about to gag out every cruel word she’d ever thought up in her quarter-century of life. Her fingers twitched and clenched at her side and against his mouth. They clawed without scratching, a feat of remarkable self-control. Finally, she stepped away and brought her fingers to her own lips. She sighed. 

“You know what?” Margo closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her chest. She breathed in through her nose, out through her mouth. Summoning calm. Like goddamn yoga. “Nope. Nope. We are not doing this.”

He furrowed his brow. “What?”

Margo shook her head, eyes still closed. She breathed again.

“No. We’re not—no. We’re not doing this. Stop.”

Eliot opened his mouth, ready to Mortal Kombat her bitchy New Age ass. But she shook her head, firmer. She gazed up at him, eyes warm where there had just been ice. After a single heavy beat, she wrapped her arms tight around his waist and pressed her cheek to his heart. 

Despite himself, he relaxed into her embrace.

“Eliot. El. Honey. Okay. I’m— Let’s not say shitty things to each other. Not today, okay?” 

His molars hurt. “You started it.”

“I know. I’m—” Her big eyes flashed right up at him, pleading and gentle in the way only he ever saw. “I’msorryokay? It’s your birthday and we’re going to have a fun night and I’m just being overprotective, so—let’s forget it. I shouldn’t have fucking brought it up.”

Eliot sighed and the frozen butter melted around his soul. He kissed her forehead. “Fine. But you really should treat your jewelry with more respect. It’s annoying.”

Bambi snorted, but she went along with the mirage. Things hadn’t really changed that much between them. Thank god.

“You do such a good job taking care of them for me though,” she said, rolling her neck and smiling, sly. “It’s your second best quality.”

He arched a brow. “What’s my first best quality?”

Margo sucked her lower lip between her teeth, slow, and winked as she pawed a hand over the front of his trousers. She gripped, hard. Eliot laughed and gasped, mock-scandalized, dipping his lips to her ear.

“Naughty,” he chastised, brushing his lips against her temple. She giggled and threw her arms around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. Closing his eyes, he let himself enjoy her touch in earnest, burying his nose into the sweet, familiar smell of her hair.

“Hey,” Margo said, pulling away and stroking his face once. “I miss you. And I’m glad you’re finally celebrating your birthday. You deserve it.”

He missed her too. He missed her all the time. Sometimes he couldn’t stand it. Quentin was—he was such a good friend and dear to Eliot, but he would never be Margo. Never be his Bambi. But he couldn't say that. He couldn't put that on her. She deserved his full-throated support, after fucking everything. Even if it sort of killed him sometimes.

So Eliot chuckled, spinning her around once and dipping her like Astaire. He kissed her forehead again, a spark of electricity zapping between them.

He squeezed her hand and pulled her up to his chest. “Don’t get soft on me, Bambi.”

Her eyes lit up and her lips puckered. “I’d burn a motherfucker down first.”

Eliot tucked her hair behind her ear and sighed, “Nothing but a blaze of glory for my girl.”

Margo smacked his ass. It stung. 

She was perfect.

* * *

Much as Eliot was severe and precise about his wardrobe, his dirtiest secret was that he usually got dressed on autopilot. He knew his combinations well and his charmed closet would often rearrange itself with new ideas and surprises. He had his hair routine down to an efficient science and he was usually fully dressed in under ninety minutes. A remarkable feat to anyone in the know. 

That night though, Eliot indulged in good old fashioned styling, taking his time and care in selecting the perfect look for the evening. It was a celebration, so it had to be dressier than usual. It was in the city, so he needed to be seen. Margo was wearing purple, so he needed to incorporate something complementary. And he was helping Alice find love—or at least a good dicking—so he needed to evoke hopefulness, joy, levity, and passion. 

Naturally, Eliot ended up in a fully lined amber-gold silk cocktail jacket with a wide satin shawl collar. Black trousers in wool mohair grain de poudre. Peach pink evening shirt, slim fit plisse with a spread collar. Italian silk black scarf and bowtie. Rose gold collar pin. Jaguar print silk pocket square. A child could have picked out the combination, but he looked damn good. 

With a final tut of charcoal around his eyes and a rake through his messy curls, Eliot shot himself a customary wink in the hallway mirror. He descended the stairs, ready for Bambi’s adoration and praise. But when he reached his tiny group of friends at the bottom of the steps, Margo was indisposed. All her attention was focused on Quentin.

“Oh my god,” Margo said, her eyes luminous and hands running up and down his chest. “Oh my god. Did you buy a new shirt? And a new jacket? It almost fits you. It almost looks _good_.”

Indeed, Quentin was dressed up, in a pressed navy shirt with white chalk stripes. He would probably call them “pinstripes,” but they weren't. Over the gentle slope of his shoulders, he wore a gray tweed blend sports jacket. And for once, his pants weren't too baggy around the waist. He'd pulled his hair back, clean and tight in a bun, save the few stubborn tendrils that always framed that fucking jawline. He looked put together and grown up in a way Eliot had only seen a handful of times since meeting him.

(He knew Q had mentor interviews and dressing the part was a big part of the second-year rotation. He knew that. He knew it wasn't like Q went out of his way to buy something for Eliot's birthday. That would be silly.)

“Almost,” Q repeated, all Sahara and smirking at Margo. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Suck it up, Coldwater. That’s as good as it’s gonna get,” Margo said before sighing and flicking her eyes back at Eliot. “Not like you’ll ever live up to my dream man. El, baby, you’re perfection as always.”

“Likewise, Bambi,” Eliot said, taking her hand and kissing the palm. She was more than perfection. She was resplendent in a delicate lilac confection, better suited to the French Riveria than their undeserving company. She cupped his face and brushed her thumb across his cheekbone. Next to them, Quentin frowned and crossed his arms. His eyes narrowed, all sour.

“That’s an impossible standard, Margo. I'll never look as good as Eliot. Ever. In my whole damn life. Jesus.”

Under the rambling grumpiness, there was a compliment buried and it tingled down Eliot’s spine right to his toes.

Turning to look directly at Q, Eliot squinted his eyes, though he were sizing him up and determining whether he found the attempt worthy. But it was really an excuse to drink him in, unabashed, without calling too much attention to his interest. Because. Well, fuck. _Fuck_. 

He was always at least low key aware of how cute Quentin was. An adorable nerd with a great smile when he let it out, and all the better when it was because of something Eliot said. But he could often let himself forget exactly how handsome he was too. With his thick brows, glittering eyes, and parentheses lined mouth, Quentin's delicate strength and sweet sharpness was overwhelming.

It was a mercy that he didn’t have to live with it every day.

Eliot noticed his lapel was askew, and he jumped on it, starved hands reaching on instinct. He made sure to let out a rush of exasperated air as he ran his fingers down along the length of the fabric, resigned in his pursuit of perfection. It was his duty and burden to ensure he was presentable, never his pleasure. Quentin’s throat bobbed, a whisper of a movement, but otherwise he sighed along, playing his role of the long-suffering friend with aplomb.

“Up to code yet?” Q asked, looking up at him through his long lashes.

“Almost,” Eliot said, biting his lip in concentration. He slid his hand around the inside of his collar, evening out the creases. His knuckles brushed the warm skin there and he wondered if his hand could just, like, rent that space. Sublet or something.

For good measure, Eliot smoothed down a couple stubborn flyaways in Quentin’s hair once, twice. Then he ran his hands along the length of his broad shoulders and down his arms. His heart jumped into his throat at his firm, well-built muscles. With a tiny shake of his head, he let go and swallowed the traitor back down where it belonged.

“There,” Eliot said, meeting Q’s eyes to prove he could. They both smiled. _Fuck._ “Perfect. Though I would have worn a tie with this ensemble.”

He pronounced it the French way, which made Q roll his eyes in a satisfying sort of way. But the very tips of his cheekbones flushed too and that was even more satisfying, in a the-world-could-fucking-end sort of way.

“I hate ties,” Quentin said, half-grumbling, half-apologetic. 

Eliot couldn’t help his smile widening. “I know.”

“Well, I for one, think you look like a babe,” Julia said, stepping forward and smiling at Q. She wore a short hunter green dress. It was somehow both drapey and tight at the same time, as per usual. Before she said anything, Eliot hadn’t noticed she was there. Oops. 

She kissed his cheek. “Total babe.”

No shit. Jesus fucking Christ, Julia. But Quentin snorted and stuck his tongue out, like it was the most unbelievable thing he’d ever heard. Like it was a joke.

“Speaking of babes,” Eliot said, needing the subject to change. Now. “Where is the loveliest Ms. Quinn?”

Margo yawned. “I made her wait upstairs so she could do a full _She’s All That _entrance.”

“But, like, what time is our reservation?” Quentin furrowed his brow, glancing down at his watch. “We’re running kinda late—“

“Calm down, Boy Scout,” Bambi said, gliding over to the stairway. She angled her face upward and cupped her mouth like a megaphone. “_Alice_! Get your cute ass down here right the motherfuck now!”

There was a telltale quiet squeak of a ward enchanted door. The hallway echoed with the uneven clicks of someone unused to stilettos. After a few moments of awkward shuffling sounds, Alice appeared at the landing. And, _wow_, Bambi hadn’t lost her touch. The black jumpsuit gave Alice an air of loungey ease. Her smoky makeup was precise and the huge waves of her curled blonde hair perfect. She was gorgeous, like the best version of what Eliot knew she could be.

She was also still very much Alice.

She clomped down the stairs, arms folded over her chest. She pushed her small silver bag up and under her armpit, dangling like it could slide out at any time. She blinked twice, hard, and her hands twitched like they wanted to rub into her eyes. When she reached the bottom of the stairwell, she pressed her lips together into a flat line and rolled her eyes.

“Am I supposed to twirl now?” Alice asked, pissy and embarrassed. She tugged at her pants legs and frowned. Margo narrowed her eyes and pinched her shoulder.

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Bambi growled. But Eliot stepped between them and took Alice’s hand, kissing the small delicate silver rings on her index and middle finger. It was Margo’s homage to Eliot. He was certain.

“Divine,” he said, meaning it. Alice smiled and darted her eyes away. “Mike won’t know what hit him.”

"Happy Birthday, Eliot," Alice said, opening her purse and handing Eliot a bright pink card. "You can read it later. There's a small gift as well."

He tucked it into his jacket pocket and smiled, soft. "Thank you, Alice."

"Oh, shit, it's your birthday," Quentin said, panicked and awed, like it had actually only then occurred to him. He reached forward and patted Eliot on the elbow. "Uh, Happy Birthday, El. Hope it's a good one."

Eliot rolled his eyes and spoke sharp over his shoulder. "Touching, Q."

"But, uh, like, were we all supposed to get you a present or—?"

Bambi slipped her arm around Eliot's waist and blinked at Q, all coquettish. "Instead of a present, I blew him earlier. You could follow my lead. Make it a twofer."

He fucking loved her so much.

Quentin sputtered. He scrunched his brow, shifting back and forth on his feet. "Yeah, right, okay. Sure, Margo. I'll—I'll get right on that. Jesus."

It was a terrible idea. But it also _wasn't_ a terrible idea. Friend in need, right?

Julia leaned into the horrified looking Alice. "She's joking. She didn't give him a blow job. But it would be okay if she did. We don't subscribe to the fiction that monogamy is the only valid relationship model."

"That's nice," Alice squeaked. “My parents are—I mean—um. Okay.”

She gave Julia a big thumb’s up, her face frozen in a clumsy grimace. Julia lifted her brows once and patted her on the arm, a gentle and motherly touch.

“And on that note,” Eliot said, his long arms wrapping around his Bambi and Alice, popping a kiss on the top of both of their heads. “Onwards to glory.”

* * *

_SMS with “_ ** _8067957123”  
_ ** _10/8/16, 8:18 PM_

Eliot Motherfucking Waugh! Happy Birthday!   
How are you doing so far?

thank you, i am extraordinary  
who is this?

Oops! :-) New phone! Mike McCormick  
I am so sorry but I’m running late  
I won’t make dinner

oh no  
bad mike

I know, I know! My boss is being a douche  
Still got my nose to the grindstone  
#werk

oof yuck

I KNOW! The worst!  
I promise I’ll be at the bar with bells on

ok

Excited to see you! :-)

aww

* * *

Eliot didn’t know New York as well as he wanted everyone to think he did.

He’d gone to undergrad in Westchester County, about an hour north of Manhattan. SUNY Purchase. Attending the Conservatory of Theatre Arts had been his original dream, starry-eyed and fanciful back on the shitfucking farm. But unsurprisingly—like everything Eliot had ever actually _tried_ to achieve in his life—he didn’t get in. But he was still accepted to Purchase College academically. His high school grades actually hadn't been a total mess, loath as he was to admit it.

Whatever. Everyone had skeletons in their past. Eliot was more than adept at dusting off the bones and shoving them deep in the closet, switched out with his unashamed love of rimjobs. Fair trade.

So even though Purchase wasn’t Fordham or NYU or—ha—Columbia, it also wasn’t the Ivy Tech Community College of Central Indiana. It was still a way out.He promised himself early in his life that he would get away, towards _something_, anything else, at any cost. And he did, with no fucking thanks to anyone but his own will and determination. 

Well, and the financial aid committee who gave him a full ride, including room and board. But he was certain that was his second successful use of magic anyway. Somehow.

So one early morning in August of 2010, eighteen-year-old Eliot moved swift down and away from his childhood front porch. The rotted wood sunk with each step and the peeling paint flapped in the humid breeze. All his paltry belongings were stuffed in one small bag, slung over his shoulder. He had sold everything else he could get his hands on. Adjusting his aviators and steeling his soul, he stormed his way toward the honking taxi, parked in the mud all the way from Fort Wayne. A chicken clucked in the distance and he didn’t turn around. Not once. Then, one plane ride from Indianapolis later, he arrived in not-quite-suburban New York in not-quite-style.

Once there, he studied individualized Liberal Arts. That equated to him learning how to drink and throw parties that dazzled, even before magic. Of course, he hadn’t become _Eliot Waugh _yet, not in the way people at Brakebills knew him. Not in the way he was meant to be. But he still made the tiny hamlet his resounding bitch in a short period of time. Big fish, small pond, no shit. It was the perfect training ground. By senior year, he was every bit the glamorous megabitch his destiny foretold. It was only then that he was ready to welcome Margo Hanson (and magic or whatever) into his gorgeous and aloof arms. He rarely if ever looked back.

… Except for one indulgent rush of reminiscence, that he usually tried to downplay even to himself. But he could never fully avoid it, such was it so deeply ingrained in his psyche. Because going into the city? During those years? He’d yet to chase a high, magical or otherwise, that quite compared. 

None of his “friends” (a small group of insecure queer boys, a smattering of fetishizing straight girls looking for shopping gays, and some other hangers-on) had a car. So as many weekends as they could, they would take the bus to the train station and head straight into Harlem, bright-eyed and thrilled in their awkward anxieties. And from there, young Eliot only ever wanted to go one street, every single time: 

St. Marks Place. 

The East Village was a whirlwind of grit and style, queer and rock history that tantalized him, despite all the times those “friends” would try to insist on going to newer hipster hotspots in further reaches of the island and outer boroughs. But even before he was _Eliot Waugh_, he was a commanding figure people didn’t fuck with, so he usually got what he wanted. His favorite bar had been a speakeasy dive, hidden away in the corners of the street. It was camouflaged by a garish souvenir shop and a 24-hour dim sum joint. It was there he spent hours soaking in the real world. There, he cultivated himself and survived the worst of the mid-tier shit, hunkered in a booth with ripped leather and an extra strong whiskey ginger. As always, people could fuck off with their assumptions.

Above everything though was the most prescient twist of fate, one Eliot found out five years later. That the same obscure, unassuming bar in the rowdiest part of the East Village had been the exact same favorite bar of two sweet-faced and innocent Ivy Leaguers: A young Julia Wicker… and Quentin Coldwater. Somehow, that felt more right than almost anything else in his entire fucking life. In a way that was private and real, and tucked deep into the silent hideouts of his heart.

One time, it hadn’t been silent. Eliot had mused to Quentin that they could have seen each other there. That they probably had. Lost ships passing in the night, both terrified of the storm brewing inside them. Neither knowing they were both sailing forward, on course, toward their magical mooring and something like a home. 

He’d been drunk. No shit. But Q had been drunk too and so he’d laughed and said, “If I ever saw you there, El—God, I’d definitely remember.” Then he smiled at him, eyes shining and cheeks tipsy red and Eliot’s arms had trembled for not carrying Quentin up to his room and fucking him for hours that night.

Anyway. 

(Shit. This was another reason why Eliot didn’t like birthdays. Too much opportunity for bittersweet, reflective nonsense.)

Anyway.

Dinner had been uneventful. Great food, good conversation, best people. Bambi chose the sake. Alice told everyone about her trip to Kyoto. Quentin piled his Sad Little Salmon Roll with pickled ginger, even though everyone knows it's a _palate cleanser,_ not a topping. Julia talked about school way too much. Bambi spoke with the chef in perfect Japanese and scored them incredible off-menu courses. Alice fretted about her lack of political science knowledge, in preparation for meeting Mike (“Of course I’m familiar with de Tocqueville and Locke, but what if he’s more of a Humean thinker?”) Quentin declared that all sake tasted like white wine mixed with cat piss; Margo almost hexed him. Julia led a short toast, not once mentioning birthdays. They all drank and ate and made merry. It was great. It was nice. It was fine.

After, the five of them piled together, tipsy and without outerwear, and walked for ten blocks. Margo rode on Q’s back, bitching nonstop about her heels. Alice tutted out warming spells over their hands. Julia snuggled in close to Eliot and he felt bad that he’d been an asshole in his head earlier that evening. Or for many evenings. Or pretty damn often. She was a good egg.

Finally, they arrived at his favorite old bar. Even though it wasn’t a Magician bar—no special illusions or psychedelic herbalism shots of liquid glitter and free-falling fancy—it was the only place he wanted to ring in his birthday.Ushering his friends in through the tinted glass and steel paneled door, he gave Margo a pointed glare when she immediately twitched her nose. The narrow entryway was postered with local punk band flyers and scratched graffiti.

“It’s cozy,” she said, dry as chalk. She tossed her hair behind her shoulders. “Hope it’s worth the nostalgia or what-the-fuck-ever. But I’m telling you right now that if they throw sawdust on vomit, I’m out of here.”

Eliot kissed her on top of her head. “You’d be following my fastidious stride, Bambi.”

“This is a one time exclusive, asshole,” she said, leaning her cheek against his shoulder. “And if we ever make it to LA, we do it my way. Elite Magician clubs only.”

“Fuck LA,” Quentin said on autopilot, like a good little New Yorker who was actually very much a bridge and tunnel kid. Margo growled a quiet _No, fuck you_, but he ignored her, jumping past them and bouncing on his toes. “Back booth is open. Best spot in the house. I’ll grab it.”

“And I’ll grab the first round,” Julia said, with a quick kiss to Margo’s temple. Bambi hummed, pleased. “I know what’s good. Come with?”

“I’m not carrying shit,” Margo said, draping herself around Julia’s waist. “I’ll bet I can get more free drinks than you though.”

Julia’s eyes sparked. “Oh, it’s fucking on, Hanson.”

Watching them go, Eliot sighed. They were gross. Also, hedoubted that Julia actually knew anything about what was good to drink. He suspected she’d come back with nothing but lemon drops and whiskey shots. But one of the most difficult, yet crucial, parts of being a gracious host was letting others contribute in their own little ways. Even or especially if their contributions were an inconvenience that set one’s own personal vision back a step or two. He’d order his own cocktail for the next round. His selflessness was underrated.

Besides, he needed to focus on the next phase of the evening. Rubbing his hands together and turning to Alice, Eliot smiled and licked his lips.

“Mike is on his way,” he said, glancing back down at the text that had came through (_On the 6! BIRTHDAY TIME! :-)_ ) and then back up at her. “Need a last minute pep talk?”

Alice shook her head so that her blonde curls flew out from her head. “No. Let’s get this over with.”

Eliot laughed and wrapped his arm around her. She tensed again. He dropped it and winked. “That’s the spirit.”

* * *

Mike was a really good hugger for a straight guy. 

He wrapped his full body into it, long and sturdy arms around the shoulders and stubbly blonde cheek pressed warm against the temple. He rocked side-to-side. He ended with a thump on your back and pulled away with a wide smile, squeezing biceps as looked up and down.

“How do you always manage to look so amazing?” Mike laughed, admiring the shining fabric of Eliot’s suit jacket. “I feel like every time I see you, I’m like, wow, that’s gotta be the end-all, be-all. But then somehow you outdo yourself all over again the next time.”

“Please,” Eliot said, airily waving his hand in the air. Mike was a good guy. They really should hang out more often. “You’re a darling.”

“Really good to see you again,” Mike said, thumping Eliot’s back one more time. He was very strong and muscly. Eliot beckoned him back toward the back table as they talked, moscow mule and beer in their respective hands from the bar. “Been too long. How’s the old alma mater?”

“Exacting and homicidal,” Eliot said, sliding into the giant round booth beside Q and slid his long arm out behind him. He was buried in his phone, typing away, and so Eliot kicked his foot a little. He grunted. Eliot rolled his eyes and continued being a polite member of society.

“Mike, of course you remember Margo—”

Bambi raised a single eyebrow. Mike smiled and laughed, a strangled sound. He was intimidated. Bambi looked away.

“And her girlfriend, Julia—”

“Hey Mike,” Julia said, leaning across the table and reaching her hand out. Mike took it with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”

“You too, Julia,” Mike said with a big smile, pumping their hands up and down once. 

“—and you’ve met Quentin,” Eliot said, indicating the boy next to him with his head. He still didn’t look up, still typing furiously, all thumbs. He cleared his throat and dipped his lips closer to his ear. “And you’ve met _Quentin_.”

Q jumped and his phone flipped onto the table, blinding at full brightness. “Wait, what? Huh?”

Eliot stared down at him, impassive and cool. “Say hello to Mike.”

Quentin blinked and brought his face up, like he was still orienting to the surroundings. It was easy to get lost in a phone when given the opportunity. Technically, technology was banned at Brakebills. But he had probably been on fucking Reddit or some shit, arguing with an anonymous neckbeard about children’s fantasy literature. To confirm his hunch, Eliot slid his eyes over to the still open phone screen, glaring up and bright from beside his index finger.

Yup. Several paragraphs. Jesus, Q.

**kingoftheeyesores92 • 2m**

_Despite AragornIsMyBitch’s claims, the facts bear out as such: Critics familiar with both oeuvres praise the F&F series as having richer prose, more fully realized characterization, and even stronger world building than LOTR (I know, I know - blasphemy! But please see Lin Carter, “Plover: A Look Behind the Fillorian Mythos,” 1975 for common understanding, it’s a quick read.) For one example, let’s look at the Old Fillorian formal language vs. the contextual tribal communications of the Dwnadian Dwarves. Their linguistic—_

It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t cute.

“Hey Mike,” Quentin said, dragging Eliot’s attention back up and to the conversation. His voice was low and just on the other side of unfriendly, eyes cautious. He tugged his lips downward and raised his eyebrows in tandem. He stretched his five fingers up into the air and then slammed his palm against his thigh. It was supposed to be a wave. Close enough.

“Good to see you,” Mike said, squinting his eyes and running his tongue over his smiling teeth. He looked back and forth between the two of them and cleared his throat. “Again. An unexpected treat.”

Quentin fully frowned. “Why is it unexpected?”

Eliot laughed and squeezed his shoulder, telegraphing him to shut the fuck up. There was an end goal they were working towards and it wasn’t parsing off-the-cuff small talk. Mike started to open his mouth to answer and Eliot leaned across the table, sweeping his hand to the empty place on the other end of the booth.

“And you, good sir, are lucky to have the absolute best seat in the house,” he said, winking at Alice. She looked like she was going to choke on her lemon drop as she guzzled it down. “Next to my newest and loveliest friend, Ms. Alice Quinn.”

“Hi,” Alice said, putting her drink down and attempting a smile. 7/10. “Nice to meet you, Mike. Eliot has said so many great things about you.”

Mike let his gaze linger on Alice for a moment before slipping into the booth. He took her hand, kissing her knuckles. 

“Any friend of Eliot’s is a friend of mine,” he said, voice rougher than before. He smiled up at Eliot and winked, before turning back to Alice. “Tell me about yourself, Alice.”

She flushed. Success.

* * *

“So then Rick—who’s great, by the way,” Mike said, brandishing his golden-brown beer bottle around the table. Eliot nodded. Rick was great. “Rick says, well, fuck me, but that’s a Polaski’s Mending, not a Polaski’s _Fending_. Which was why the security guard was even stronger and completely undeterred.”

“Classic,” Eliot said, smiling and twirling a quarter on the table. He suspended it in the air with telekinesis, then dropped it before a muggle saw. 

“So Rick’s an idiot?” Alice asked, eyebrows pulled together. Quentin snorted and brought his wrist up to his lips, hiding a laugh. His shoulders shook. Eliot elbowed the shit out of him. But then he wrapped his arm around him because it was birthday and he could do what he wanted. Even better, Q was tipsy enough to lean into his side, a solid warm weight from knee to shoulder.

“Intellect isn’t everyone’s strength,” Bambi said, happily sipping on her fourth free drink. She winked to a neanderthalic baseball cap in the corner and licked her lips in a long slow circle. “Rick’s is more along the lines of having a crooked dick and an underdeveloped amygdala.”

A black-clad server brought over Margo’s fifth drink. Julia slumped onto her hand, pouting at her paltry second cider. She took a shot of whiskey, one she’d sadly had to buy for herself.

“You fucked Rick?” Eliot asked Margo in an aside. She nodded over her drink and made an equivocating _so-so_ sign with her hand, with a sneer of vague disinterest. That tracked. 

“Okay,” Mike said, pressing his hands on the table. “I know this is a very, verylow-key celebration. But I think a fucking toast is in order.”

“Julia did one earlier,” Alice said, running her finger along the rim of her glass. “Though I suppose you weren’t there for that.”

Eliot cracked his neck and smiled at Mike, wide and false. “Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”

Mike stared right into his eyes and tipped his bottle. “Nonsense. You only turn twenty-five once.”

Jesus.

Quentin harrumphed, “Well, if anyone should do another toast, it’s Margo.”

Bambi tossed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’d rather make out with him and then portal us the fuck to Barcelona than say a bunch of cheesy bullshit in front of you unworthy peons.”

“You know what? I respect that take,” Quentin said, lifting his cider toward Margo. She lifted her own random cocktail with a rare bright smile. Their odd but sincere friendship clinked soundly as glass met glass. Eliot could have lived in that moment.

Mike ignored all of that and lifted his beer. “I’d like to start with a little story.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Margo slumped back in the booth. Julia ran her hand through her hair soothingly, but also made a soft shushing sound in her ear. In the past, if some bitch had actively tried to quell Bambi’s pouty protests, she would have woken up in a hospital bed with a Louboutin stabbed into her ear canal and her eyebrows ripped off. Shit changed, he guessed. 

Mike ignored her again. “It was the day after my third-year fall midterms and I was walking back to the Physical Kids’ Cottage, feeling pretty good about life. When suddenly, a fucking fireball slammed down in front of me, exploding the path into what appeared to be a shockwave of glitter and—I think—sugar cubes?”

Eliot waggled his eyebrows. “It was for the giant absinthe fountain by the sculpture garden.” At Alice’s shocked face, he fluttered his lashes her way. “It was Wormwood Wednesday, darling. A landmark occasion.”

Mike gave him a two-finger salute and a low chuckle. “Anyway, that was my official introduction to the glory that is Eliot Waugh. Since that day, there’s been no one in my life who has surprised me more or inspired me more. Eliot is always the life of the party, the best looking guy in the room, and the one who absolutely knows all the very best people—” he twisted in his seat and smiled at Alice, who turned her face into the palm of her hand “—because he only draws the very best to him. And so I think we’re all really lucky to know him and to be chosen by him. Happiest of Birthdays to the best among us. To Eliot.”

“To Eliot! Yay!” Alice said, thrusting her glass upward. 

“Ew,” Bambi said, pecking at her phone. 

She wasn’t wrong. It was sentimental garbage. 

But Julia elbowed her, hard. She raised her glass and repeated the sentiment, firm and in Margo’s ear more than for Eliot’s benefit. Much as he hated it admit it, it was the correct response. Mike meant well in that hapless straight man way of his. And even better, it made Alice shine bright as the moon, so it was doubly worth it. 

But next to him, Quentin narrowed his eyes and his lips turned up, coy and wry. 

“That was really special, Mike,” he said, low and almost-but-not-quite clipped. His ability to be an asshole hiding in plain sight was truly the eighth wonder.

“Thanks,” Mike said, looking right at Eliot. He held his glass up one more time. “Meant every word.”

Quentin nodded, earnest and sweet. But under the table, he kicked the shit out of Eliot’s ankle and it sent a bloom of heat and exhilaration up through his calf muscles. He kicked him back once, hard, and then tugged him closer into his side. Q’s wide brown eyes danced up at him, the wicked glint too subtle for almost anyone else to catch. Fuck.

With a grin of his own, Eliot took a final sip of his cocktail—a concoction of whiskey, courvoisier, and grapefruit, with matcha powder on the rim. It was more creative than it was delicious. But one couldn’t support the endeavor of inventive mixology without occasionally ordering a failure or two. He sent Mike an obligatory wink and _Thank you_, before resting his cheek against the top of Quentin’s head. Mike shifted oddly in his seat, clearing his throat. 

“Okay,” Eliot said, putting his wide-rimmed glass in the middle of the table with a flourish. He ran his fingers up and down Q’s arm. “I’m dry. Someone get the birthday boy some shots.”

It was clear as vodka that he meant for Quentin to do it, but he didn’t move. If anything, he cuddled deeper into him, head rolling into the crook of his neck. Which, like, he wasn’t going to complain, but he wanted shots and it was Q’s turn to get a round. Eliot cleared his throat and tilted his head downward, eyes glaring into his big drunk brown ones.

(Weaknessacknowledged. Fuckfuckfuckfuck.)

He clacked his teeth. “_Someone _get the birthday boy some shots.”

“Me?” Quentin frowned. Then squinted his eyes. “But the bar is, like, really far away.”

It was barely across the room. Fifteen feet max. He was such a shit.

“Hey, I’m on it,” Mike said, fingers pinching at the crook of Eliot’s neck. He smiled at Alice, who blushed. Eliot felt another rush of triumph. “For everyone. Ah—Quincy, what were you drinking again?

Quentin’s lips turned up slightly. “It’s Quentin. And I’m actually fine, thanks.”

“No, you’re not,” Eliot waved that absurdity off. He turned to Mike, all serious. “Get me three Chartreuse shots and get Q here three flaming tequila shots. It’s on the secret menu.”

“I don’t want flaming tequila shots. And I definitely don’t want _three_ flaming tequila shots.”

“You don’t know what you want,” Eliot said blithely before turning to the real blonde of the hour. “Alice, why don’t you go help Mike with the drinks, hm?”

“Oh,” she said, jumping. She frowned and then nodded, like she was taking on an epic quest. “Yes. I can do that.”

“A lovely assistant all for me?” Mike gasped and put his hand to his chest. With his free hand, he pulled her up toward him and smiled at her. “Be still my heart.”

Alice went bright red and gleeful, and the two of them wandered off, smiling and talking. She had been particularly interested in Mike’s political goals: what his platform was, what the Texan political landscape looked like, where and how magic came into play, all that boring shit. Mike ate it up and barely took his eyes off Alice all night, except to occasionally chat with the guest of honor himself (to be polite, really.) Feeling smug and snuggly, he leaned back and gave Q a slow smile.

“Tell me I’m a genius,” Eliot demanded, carding his hand through his fucking ridiculously soft hair. He rolled a few strands between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me I was right.”

Quentin yawned and closed his eyes, leaning his head into the touch. “No.”

* * *

Shots got them drunk. 

_Drunk_.

Not that they weren’t drunk before. But all of them (save maybe Alice, couldn’t tell) were giggly and warm and everything was sparkling on the edges, so it was a good night. It was a really good night, even for a birthday. It had only gotten better as the air got warmer and their lips got looser, even if there was way less making out than Eliot wanted. He would have made out with all six of them at that point. All at once. The world’s tamest but most satisfying slumber party orgy.

Mike and Alice were sitting together, turned into each other and talking about whether Libertarianism was a valid political philosophy or some shit. Alice’s cheeks were pink and Mike’s eyes were smiling, so it must have been working. Margo was telling a story about the time she had a threesome with Antonio Banderas and a stripper, and Julia was calling her a bullshit artist. And Q—perfect fucking Q—was talking quietly in his ear about... something. 

It wasn’t that Eliot didn’t care. But god, his voice was sandpaper calm, lilting up and down the curve of his spine. His warm breath was on his neck and his cheek on the ball of his shoulder. Under the table, their ankles hooked together. In, like, the way friends do. You know. Drunk friends.

“—so to me, it feels like magic is limitless. So even though it’s fucking hard—and I know, you think too dangerous—but, like, there’s something really beautiful about how its the truest infinity we can approach, you know?”

God, his eyes were so beautiful. Lucid and glowing right at him, like Eliot was the only person in the world. For a second, he may as well have been. He slumped down in the booth with a tiny sigh and rested his temple against the tufted leather, and nodded. He didn’t know what he was agreeing to. Didn’t care.

But then Quentin reached for a goddamn beer bottle and that was unacceptable. Eliot cut off whatever else Quentin was saying by wrapping his hand around his, stopping the movement. “How can you drink that swill?” 

“It’s not swill,” Quentin said, resting his temple against the booth, mirroring Eliot. He grinned and didn’t move his hand. Eliot squeezed his fingers. Still didn’t move his hand. “It’s from a local microbrewery.”

“Snake oil.” Their knees knocked together. “Snake piss.” He pulled his eyebrows together. “Do snakes piss?”

“Of course snakes piss.”

“Are you sure?”

“All animals piss, El.” 

He hummed in vague acknowledgment and scooted closer, their foreheads whispering together. “You should be drinking a gin and tonic, like me. Much better than snake piss. Which is a real thing.”

Quentin smiled then, soft and strange in the dim bar light. His brown eyes were gentle and endless. “Yeah.”

Eliot’s skin vibrated. His fingers moved off the bottle to find Q’s face, tucking his hair behind his ear. He traced his thumb along the shell of his ear. It was kind of big and sticky-outty, and the grooves in the edges matched his smile dimples. Asymmetrical, but adorable. Eliot thought about saying all that out loud, but Q would take it the wrong way. He took things the wrong way sometimes. 

But any words disintegrated when Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut under his touch. Eliot’s stomach clenched and soared. All his focus dropped down to his lips, like spotlit tunnel vision. All he could see was that perfect pink and wide cupid’s bow with a dangerous dusting of light brown stubble. His lips were always in a thin frown, always a little sad. They begged to be lifted up, with a joke or the brush of a thumb. They begged to be kissed. 

Maybe if Eliot just—if he just tried, just once, just for that night—it didn’t have to be more than that night, he wasn’t stupid—he knew who he was and what he deserved, but Q was so beautiful and it was his _birthday_ and—

Quentin’s eyes opened, laughing. He dropped his head down, chin to chest. Eliot’s hand fell with it. “Holy shit, I’m drunk. What the fuck was in those shots?”

“A shitton of tequila and Sambuca,” Eliot said with a wicked grin. He drummed the table and his rings reverberated. His heart was arhythmic but he projected steady calm. The facade of composure in the face of Quentin’s quiet, riotous pull. He blinked and scratched his eyebrow. Q groaned and rested his forehead in his palms, elbows on the table. He shifted his face so Eliot could see one playful open eye and half a cheeky smile.

“What the fuck is Sambuca?”

“High-proof alcohol,” Eliot said, petting Q’s hair again. It was so soft. “Makes the pretty lights.” 

Pretty lights for a pretty boy. Fuck. 

Desperate for a distraction, Eliot cleared his throat and took a sip of his gin. He let the herbal sharpness roll around his mouth for a good few seconds. Reorienting himself to the group, he watched as Alice performed a series of quiet tuts over Margo’s head. She was already looking right at Eliot, eyes narrowed and glassy. She raised a slow eyebrow at him and tilted her head. It was a challenge he didn’t understand. To disarm her, he shot her a quick air kiss and purr. 

“You’re a beautiful idiot, El,” she said, apropos of nothing. She sighed and rested her head on Julia’s shoulder. Her very, very, very drunk girlfriend immediately giggled into her big curls.

All he heard was _beautiful_. “Thank you, Bambi.”

Alice stretched her hands out and glanced around the table. “Okay. Who else wants a sober charm?”

“Over my cold dead body,” Julia said with a whoop and another shot of whiskey held aloft in the air. Eliot reached across the table to toast her, the only true genius he’d ever known. Their glasses clinked and the liquid sloshed. They down their mutual liquor, laughter in their veins. Sometimes, he really did like her quite a lot.

But next to him, Quentin quickly agreed by saying, “Shit, yeah, I really need it before I do something stupid.” Of course, that made Eliot desperate to know what Q’s idea if _something stupid_ was. Send AragornIsMyBitch his GPS location and a challenge to fisticuffs? Do karaoke to Taylor Swift’s “Teardrops on My Guitar?” Overhear someone say the word _bemused_ and not share his dumb little rhyme (“_Be_mused means _con_fused not _a_mused”)? Or was he talking about—

Before he could continue down that messy and twinkling and horrible and hilarious line of goddamn drunken thought, Eliot felt Bambi’s cool hands on his and oh, thank fuck, it was time for dancing. It was time to dance. The best time of the night and he wrapped the whole of himself around her. He needed contact. He needed skin and movement and Margo.

Julia, meanwhile started chanting, “I hate sober charms! I hate sober charms! I hate sober charms!” and laughing and jumping, and before Eliot knew it, his arm was around her and they were singing, harmonizing, _We haaaate sober chaaaaarms_ at the top of their lungs. Julia terribly, Eliot amazingly. And he barely registered Bambi’s annoyed yet fond, “Jesus Christ,” right by his ear. The music swelled into a steady, heavy beat and he had two gorgeous Magicians twirling and writhing with him. 

Three, actually. Mike was there and his hands were on Eliot’s arms and he was laughing. He had almost no rhythm, but he made up for it in enthusiasm and the way his sharp eyes never left his face. For a second, Eliot thought, _Fuck, this guy wants me,_ but that was stupid, that was stupid. Really, he just wanted someone to want him, and since the someone he wanted to want him didn’t want him (_because he knows you, Eliot, he knows you why the fuck would he want you when he _knows_ you, you asshole cocksucking motherfu—_), it was a fun fantasy to pretend that the even more unlikely someone—pretty, burly, straight, Republican-ass Mike—really did want him. But it wasn’t real. It was never real. And besides, the only reason Mike was even there was because of Alice and—

Oh. Fuck.

_Alice_. 

Where the hell was Alice?

“Sober charm me,” he whispered in Margo’s ear, gripping her hip. He ground into her a little and scraped his teeth against her neck. She hummed and leaned her head against his chest. “Just enough to take the haze off. Gotta get some business done.”

“Buy a girl a drink first, you smooth talker,” Bambi giggled with a sultry flutter of her lashes. But she raised her hands, tutting like she was still dancing. She may as well have been. But his mind was stabilized and his focus acute. Smooth, clean, seamless. Everyone always underestimated Margo’s magic.

He kissed her cheek. “Keep my spot warm.”

Shaking his arms out and steadying his walk, Eliot blinked and reoriented. Vaguely, he heard Mike call his name as he left the floor and Julia laugh, but he was a man on an official mission. 

Hopefully he hadn’t neglected Alice too much that night. It was hard to remember how much he’d been focused on his own drunken bullshit. Did he owe her an apology? He thought she was doing well, holding her own with Mike. But maybe he should have intervened more and kept everything flowing, so they didn’t get separated. Mike seemed to like her and she seemed to like Mike, so they should have been dancing together without question. If she got shuffled to the side, it would be his fault. Bar none.

Or maybe she was just going to the bathroom.

Squinting his eyes, he glanced around until he found the back booth, with all their jackets and purses strewn about. He also found a shock of blonde hair, sitting in the center of the round booth, hands folded on the table. She was smiling. At Q. 

They were talking animatedly, with Alice flipping through his omnipresent deck of cards with a tiny wrinkle of curiosity in her brow. But before she could squeak out whatever magic theory query was certainly on her lips, Quentin pulled a card out from the air behind Alice’s hair. He held it out with a nerdy flourish—wiggling fingers, waggling eyebrows—and she nodded, smiling politely. Quentin gave a tiny bow and Alice clapped her hands. She laughed through her nose, glasses bouncing.

Hot annoyance ripped through Eliot’s stomach. Quentin knew the point was for Alice to get to know Mike. Jesus, he was such a cockblock. Eliot stormed over as quickly as his long legs would carry him. Quentin perked up at his presence and waved, while Alice smiled sweetly. Greetings all around.

“Fifty-two card pick up,” Eliot said brightly, using his telekinesis to scatter Quentin’s deck all around the booth and floor. 

“What the _fuck_, Eliot?”

He ignored him and grabbed Alice’s hand. “Dancing is a must, darling. Come along.”

But Alice tucked her lip between her teeth and pointed her brow at Q. “Do you need help, Quentin?”

Eliot shot him a violent glare. He blinked once in acknowledgment, sighed, and held his hands up. He ducked under the table, shaking his head.

“Apparently, I’m fine.”

Eliot tugged on her hand and smiled, pulling her to the floor. “He’s more than fine. He’s excellent. Let’s go have fun.”

The creases in Alice’s forehead deepened. She gave Eliot a sheepish look. “I think I’d have more fun cleaning up the cards. I’m not much of a dancer.”

“You’ll be fine,” he said blithely, spinning her protests right into Mike. The blonde man grinned and laughed, offering Alice a small shrug and his hand. She smiled back, shy, but willing. They danced chaste and in a swing formation, apparently going for the slow-but-steady courtship. Not his style, but to each their own. Most likely, it worked for Alice and that was the whole point. Mike lifted his head and nodded at Eliot, sending him another wink, mouthing _Happy Birthday._ And for himself, Eliot returned to his Bambi and found his rhythm again, all fast hips and glowing light. All was right with the world.

At least, until stole one glance back at Q. He expected see him glowering and pissy in the corner, as he deserved after that stint with Alice. But instead, Quentin was spinning his cards up into the same moving lights, quietly delighted and eyes shining. He pumped his fist to his chest in a private victory celebration when he landed a particularly difficult kinetic flight-switch. The cards fluttered out in a waving ring. Then he smiled, dimpled and perfect.

Heart dropping out of his chest, Eliot ripped his eyes away and back to Bambi, beautiful against his body. She smiled up at him and stroked his cheek, whispering _Happy Birthday, baby _in his ear. He closed his eyes and let the music overtake everything.

The sober charm was a stupid idea.

* * *

SMS with “**Mike McCormick**”  
_10/9/16 9:45 AM_

Hello hello! Eliot told me to be sure to text you  
So here I am :-)

Hello, Mike.

Didn't expect a response so fast!  
Off campus this morning?

Yes.  
I would rather not discuss it.

OK :-)  
Nice meeting you last night!

Thank you. It was nice to meet you as well. 

Btw, the book I mentioned  
“Norms of Liberty” by D. Rasmussen  
Check it out :-)

Thank you again, Mike. I hope I can find time between my studies.   
Brakebills can be demanding, as I’m sure you remember.

Oh I definitely remember THOSE days ;-)  
Well if you do manage to find time  
Maybe we could get together to chat about it?  
Cajole Mr. El into making us some drinks!

I would enjoy that.  
Eliot is an excellent bartender. 

With such wonderful friends too :-)  
Have a great day!

Thank you, Mike. The same to you.

* * *

“What do you think?” Alice chewed on her lip, eyebrows cocked and folded. The morning light filtered through the Cottage’s translucent curtains. He and Alice sat cross-legged on the couch, coffee mugs at the ready for a debrief. At her question, Eliot took a long, long breath and his eyes crossed toward the screen.

“It’s on airplane mode,” she assured him before he spoke, like he gave a shit. Brakebills was draconian, but technology interfered with magic about as much as it did, well, airplanes. Fogg instituted a blanket ban only because he could. Total power move. Only nerds actually complied. 

No, his real concern had much more to do with the actual content of what she had sent Mike. Eliot glanced up from her phone and sighed, loud and for full effect. He handed it back to her, but didn’t let go even as she gripped it. He dipped his head and made unyielding eye contact.

“In the future, if Mike texts you,” he said, slowly, imploringly, “come find me before you respond, yeah? I will portal to you. I don't give a shit. Worth it to prevent this in the future.”

Her pretty face fell. “That bad?”

“_I’d rather not discuss it_?” Eliot asked, tapping his finger against the offending message in question. Alice glanced away. “What the hell?”

“I told you, I had a family thing this morning,” she said, swallowing. “It seemed too much for an early conversation.”

“Okay, sure, but, like, just _lie_ next time,” Eliot said, blinking and sipping his coffee. “Or don’t give details. The honesty police won’t come after you, I promise.”

“Fine,” Alice said, breathing sharp and glancing back down at the screen. “But how was it otherwise?”

“You were very polite,” Eliot conceded. But she read the subtext and puffed her cheeks out, falling back into the couch cushions in frustration.

“Well, what would you have said?” She asked, crinkling every feature that crinkled.

He rubbed at his chin in the performance of a serious ponder. “I would have started with something simple. Like, _Here you are indeed, big boy._”

Alice’s eyes were bigger than her glasses and her voice squealed like a dog toy. “I could never say that!”

“Why not?”

She sputtered, “For obvious reasons!”

“But you would’ve been sure to,” he waggled his eyebrows and smirked, “get a _rise_ out of him.”

“Oh my god, Eliot.”

He laughed into his hands and patted her knee. “Try not to worry so much about being so—unobjectionable. It’s okay if boys object. They _like_ objecting.”

“I’m not a shrinking violet,” she said, taking her glasses off and wiping them with the edge of her shirt. She perched them back on her nose. “I held my own last night.”

“Oh, more than,” he said, quick and true . She had. “But don’t be afraid to be flirtier, that’s all. A little bite never hurt anyone, much.”

She pinched her lips and sipped her coffee. “ It’s better if people think I’m nice first. I’m not so immediately alluring. It's different for you. You're sex on legs.”

He grinned bright as the sun. “There’s that sweet talk I love so much. _Very_ alluring.”

Alice smiled. She circled her mug with her fingers and met his eyes. “I think I like him though. He knows a lot about political science and even more about Texan history. Even if I don’t share someone's passion, I always appreciate intellectual curiosity.”

He leaned back on one arm. “Does the Republican thing bother you?” He cleared his throat. “It would bother me a bit. So it’s okay if it bothers you. But also if it doesn’t.”

Alice shrugged, small, side-stepping. “He has kind eyes. I’m drawn to kind eyes.”

“Me too,” Eliot said, softer and more honest than he meant. It was an irritating effect she seemed to have on him. But Alice smiled at him with all her teeth, like they’d shared a secret sundae with extra sprinkles after bedtime. It was nice.

But then Quentin fell onto the couch next to them, startling Alice into a jump. He was fully dressed in a striped sweater and jeans. He was showered too, the tips of his hair still wet and smelling like spiced drugstore bergamot. Yet despite his lack of Fillory jammies and tell-tale dark eye circles, he moaned, covering his entire face with his hands.

“I thought sober charms were supposed to take away the hangover?” Q said, instead of _Good morning, Alice and Eliot. You two look well today._ He peeked through his fingers to glare at Alice. She frowned.

“It’s not a miracle spell,” Alice said, crossing her arms. Defensive. “The safe ones sharpen your mental acuity but they don’t stop your physiological processing.”

In response, he just groaned all over again and Eliot rolled his eyes, laying his hand flat and patronizing on top of his head. Whiners never win.

“Feel like a truck hit me,” Quentin complained, dramatically.

“Oh, come on, you giant baby,” Eliot said, sending his empty mug off to the kitchen. He stood and tugged his arm in a single motion upward. Q made a displeased sound, but followed, pliant. “Let’s get you some fresh air, coffee, and hair of the dog, then you’ll be good as new.”

“Feel like I’m gonna die,” Quentin complained, dramatically. 

“The reaper comes for us all,” Eliot said, cooing as Q grunted. He pivoted back around on his heels and smiled at Alice. “Will you join, Ms. Quinn?”

Alice rolled her eyes and gave Eliot a scoffing smile. “No thank you. Some of us actually do schoolwork.”

He winked. “I’m not familiar.”

Alice rolled her eyes and waved him off. She reached beside her and pulled out a book, flipping to a marked page in the center. Her blue eyes focused intent on the words, her face a statue of concentration.

“I hate everything and everyone,” Quentin said, slumping forward by his shoulders. Eliot coaxed him closer to the door with a _There, there_ and a slightly too hard pinch on his side. Turning around to offer a final wave to Alice, he froze as he realized his spot on the couch was already occupied. By a head of bigger, longer, darker curls than his.

“—spectral refraction is such a bitch,” Kady said, her ignoble face lifting into a smile. “Wanna join forces?”

Alice sat up straight, eyes twinkling. “Sure! I’d be happy to help. And—and learn from you too.”

“Love the tact, Blondie,” Kady said with a snort and a nose scrunch. Alice’s cheeks flushed, but her lips lifted like she was pleased anyway. Eliot’s hand twitched.

“El.”

Quentin’s voice was quiet and strange. Eliot flashed his eyes over and clenched his jaw. But Q’s eyebrows were low against his eyelashes and his arms were crossed, not fucking around.

“Wanna get going?” It was a demand more than a question. 

Eliot smoothed his features out and sighed, wrapping his arm around Q’s shoulders and opening the Cottage door at the same time. The sunlight burst through and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, like it hurt. 

“Someone’s in a mood,” he said, keeping the lilt to his tone teasing and pleasant. “You should really drink more responsibly.”

Quentin cracked his neck and rubbed at his forehead with the heels of his palms in circles. “You’re a dick.”

Eliot chuckled and directed them toward the coffee shop, changing the subject to his plans for the week, re: fall decor strategy and a new mulled wine-cum-sex magic potion recipe he was hankering to try. Quentin nodded and _Hmm_’d at the right places, but mostly stayed perfectly quiet, letting Eliot fill the space with his fleeting and frivolous thoughts. It was one of the many ways he was a very good friend. And Eliot purposefully didn’t think about Alice and Kady—working together, sharing smiles, _bonding_—as he talked and talked and talked. 

All in due time.

* * *

They walked out of the wards, once Quentin was caffeinated and halfway human again. 

The towering beech and maple trees were duller and drier than the enchanted bursts of autumn blaze on the campus grounds. The biting nip in the gray air smacked their faces. In the distance, smoke from a campsite rose cloudy into the overcast sky, making everything smell like burnt wood and charcoal. Eliot sipped on his flask before handing it to Quentin. Q was reluctant, but still took it. Hair of the dog worked, especially when your bottomless alcohol was charmed to work.

“I’m thinking of making a career out of it,” Eliot said, tightening his hands into the pockets of his blazer. Next to him, Q rubbed his hands together and blew on them. It wasn’t chilly enough for the energy in a warming spell, but the wind was a bitch.

“Matchmaking? Are you fucking joking?”

Of course he was. But Q’s incredulous response naturally provoked: “It would be a brilliant concept. Lovelorn Magicians from all over the world, seeking out my expert guidance. They’ll reach the heights of ecstasy and romance under my keen tutelage.”

“And yet, along the way, you’d be the one who really learns how to love,” Quentin, professional shithead, said. He stepped on an extra dry dead leaf with a satisfied smirk. Whether for the quip or the crunching sound was anyone’s guess.

“Only as part of the branding narrative, and after I shook ‘em down for all they’re worth,” Eliot said, taking his flask back and sipping through a smile. “I’m thinking I start at five-hundred an hour.”

“Yeah, sure, good luck with that, Eliot,” Quentin said, all eye rolls and snorts. Eliot bit down a smile. 

Quentin still hadn’t always fully calibrated when he was fucking with him. They’d be friends long enough that he usually knew, for the most part. But every now and then, he fell for it despite everything. Like some part of him inherently trusted what Eliot said, even when it was absurd. And that was—

Didn’t matter.

Still, fucking with Q was fun as fuck. So Eliot frowned, purposefully misconstruing his meaning. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you a friends and family discount.”

Quentin ignored him, instead focusing on wrapping his sweater around him as tight as possible. He pulled his sleeves down over his fingers and wrapped them into tight fists. He breathed on them, red-faced and lips puckered. His hair flew around, wisps hitting his cheek and lips in a choppy rhythm.

Eliot wasn’t sure why he asked it, but he did. Maybe he was curious. Maybe he was a masochist. Maybe he was still kind of drunk.

“What would be on your list anyway?” He asked, lighting a cigarette. He breathed out the first hit of smoke as he chuckled. “You know, in a world where you wouldn’t rather shit yourself in front of Christopher Plover’s ghost than go to a matchmaker. ”

He frowned, cocking his head. “I don’t understand the question.”

He waved his cigarette about, impatient. “In a mate.”

Quentin looked at him like he’d lost his damn mind. “You mean, like, what kind of qualities would I request? If you were going to set me up with someone?”

“Precisely.”

He made a light choking sound as his mouth fell open. “I—I don’t fucking know.”

Eliot shrugged. The tips of his ears burned. “Okay. Forget it.”

“I’m not that—” Q tightened his jaw and blew his hair out of his face. He stared off at the farthest tree in the distance, hugging himself. “I’m not that, uh, picky. I mean, definitely not that I’d have a _list_. Because, fuck, um, what’s the expression? Um. Beggars can’t be choosers.”

Eliot smirked into the ground. He wasn’t going to fucking touch that. “Don’t worry about it. Passing fancy.”

They walked in silence, passing the cigarette and the flask back and forth. Quentin’s eyes moved around and his shoulders hunched over as he stumbled forward without grace. Eliot walked gently, though he were gliding, and held his face neutral. But the cogs in Q’s brain were obviously snapping and steaming, about to spark into an inferno from the friction and pressure of his thoughts. He pressed the heel of his palm into his overworked jaw and shuffled ahead on the trail. 

He wondered if Quentin had a night guard. He could use one.

Silence reigned for a few more moments. Then Q made a short guttural sound and said, “I—I think I’d be with anyone I was even a little attracted to and who would, you know, have me.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Anyone who would have him? 

Would have him? 

Would _have_ him, as though he wasn’t one of the most—? 

Eliot huffed on his cigarette and closed his eyes. He willed his mind into calm static.

“Okay,” he said, cracking his neck. He pulled himself up, tall and imposing. He tracked his eyes over to Quentin, who was running his fingers through his hair and knotting the ends along his nails. His fucking gorgeous hair. “Well, what are you attracted to then?”

Why the fuck was he continuing this stupid fucking conversation? He didn’t _feel_ drunk.

“I don’t know,” Quentin said, his shoulders sloping so far forward he looked like Richard III. His thin neck muscles tensed wiry and he let his hair fall fully in his face. “I don’t know. It’s not, like, a science. It’s circular. I’m attracted to anyone I find attractive, and I find people attractive because I’m attracted to them.”

_Why don’t you want me?_ Eliot’s hindbrain hissed and screamed. It kicked its legs up and threw the jam jar all over the linoleum aisle floor, face red and spit hitting the weary nanny’s face. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid. But every time he thought _maybe_—well, he was wrong. Always wrong. And it was getting to be a little too much these days.

Outwardly, though, he made a simple sound of acknowledgment, ready to change the subject.

“Besides,” Quentin continued, huffing and puffing a well-read social cue for the first time, “I think you’re being premature with the wedding invites for Alice and Mike.”

Eliot smiled, light as anything. “I would plan them the most spectacular wedding. Ice sculptures of rearing stallions and bright white cowboy boots aplenty. Might be my worst nightmare, but one can’t deny their interests are thematically suited. Fate.”

Quentin wasn’t deterred. “I don’t trust him.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Of course you don’t.”

“He’s smarmy.”

“Of course he is.” 

Mike was an aspiring politician. What else would he be? Genuine and salt of the earth? Come on.

Q pulled a hair tie off his bony wrist and wrapped his hair into one of his floppy buns. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Eliot waved his hand, ash flying off his cigarette. “Very little bothers me.”

Quentin snorted incredibly rudely. “Beg to fucking differ.”

“Mmm, Daddy loves when you beg,” he said, with a cheesy wink and a lick of his lips. Quentin pulled a face but also flushed, ever so slightly. So it was officially a good morning. 

Eliot took another drag on his cigarette. “Look, I won’t apologize for having standards. What I mean though is that people are basically shitty, so obviously Mike is shitty. But as long as he’s not a—serial rapist, then I don’t give a shit about his particular shittiness.”

“‘Not a serial rapist’ is the baseline?” Q looked genuinely distressed. “Seriously?”

Eliot twisted his lips and rocked his head back and forth. “I suppose corporate embezzlement isn’t great either.”

Quentin blew a strand of hair out his face, grinning. “You’re so full of shit.”

No shit, Q. He was cute. Eliot slung his arm across his shoulders, all older and wiser mentor.

“But if you were observant, you would have seen them and know what I mean. They were debating, all hot and heavy, leaned in toward each other. Cute as fuck,” he said and Quentin sighed, shrugging. “About something called _The Virtue of Selfishness_, which, by the way, wow, sign me up and—”

“Okay, no,” Q’s eyes flashed up at him, fierce. “If you become an Objectivist, we can’t be friends anymore.”

Ugh, philosophy. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s the Randian system, stating that reality is,” Quentin said, his eyes focusing straight ahead like they did when he was explaining a concept, “uh, well, objective, beyond consciousness, and so it’s our moral duty to orient our perceptions toward—”

“Oh, Q, I apologize,” Eliot laughed, ruffling his hair with one hand and perching his cigarette between his lips with the other. He spoke around the filter and smoke, muffled. “That wasn’t actually a request for more information, but I can see how it appeared that way.”

Quentin jostled his side and pulled away with a playful smirk, taking all his warmth with him. A true pity. But Eliot smoked and Q walked and the silence was only broken by the peppering of tiny bird chirps and rustling of wind. Eliot fucking hated nature, as a concept and a practicum, but their habit of walking was actually…nice. It was familiar, in a way he never thought he’d enjoy. But there he was, enjoying.

“Do you really think she likes him?” Quentin asked, breaking through without preamble. He wavered on the question and something pierced Eliot’s chest. He swallowed and ticked his jaw.

“Sure seems like it. Says she does,” he said, fast and firm. “Why? Is there someone else you think would be better suited?”

“I mean, yeah, kinda,” Quentin said, frowning. Eliot pretended he wasn’t frozen. “She—she really seems drawn to Kady.”

Somehow that was an even worse answer than the one he anticipated.

“Kady? Orloff-Diaz?” Eliot asked, slow and simpering. He was really saying _Vermin? Disgusting vermin?_ “Come the fuck on, Q. First of all, Alice is straight—”

“You think everyone is straight,” Quentin countered. He smiled, false and especially sarcastic in the tree’s shadow. “You thought I was straight.”

Yeah, yeah, fucking yeah.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “To be fair, you were in love with Julia and devastated about her and Margo. Didn’t exactly scream I Love Cock.”

“That’s total bullshit. You know I was over Julia once I met you,” Quentin said, with a rush of forceful conviction. Eliot’s eyebrows shot up.

But then he lost it, sucking in a sharp breath and staring at the ground. He started stammering more than usual. “I mean, by—by the time I met you. And I wasn’t devastated about Margo, I love Margo, and—and I supported them from the—the start. You know that. Jesus. Or—or—or, like, _maybe_ I had to do some minor processing—“

Sure. Minor processing. Or, you know, drunken obsessive whining with his face lodged between the couch cushion and the edge of Eliot’s shoulder. Either way.

“—But you know what I mean. But—but that’s not, um, that’s not—that’s not even my—my fucking point,” Q growled, pacing forward. “I could have _married_ Julia and still not be straight.”

“Can we save the repeat of Quentin is Queer: A Very Special Episode?” Eliot asked, irrationally annoyed. “It’s been absorbed. Promise.”

Q glared again, brown eyes golden and flickering. He swallowed and then rolled them. “Fine. Whatever. All I’m saying is that Alice and Kady seem like they actually get along, like they—”

He laughed. “Are my feelings on that insane hypothetical a mystery? Not to mention they barely know each other.”

Quentin shook his head. “No, Kady’s just not an idiot. She and Alice hang out a lot when you’re not around.”

Well, that was news to him. He pushed down the fury and swallowed, almost laughing. “Whatever. Fine. But come on. To say Alice could do better is insulting to the concept of better. That would even be fucking _postulated—_”

“You let it go earlier,” Quentin pointed out, clipped. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Kady Orloff-Diaz is a worthless piece of shit,” Eliot spat out. Quentin’s eyes widened, pooling into that spark of melancholy determination. “The only reason I didn’t destroy her in two words back at the Cottage was for your soft touch sake.”

“Oh, wow, _thank you_, Eliot—” 

His sarcasm wasn’t always so adorable.

“But let me be clear, Coldwater,” Eliot said, holding his hand up and cutting him the fuck off. “Even if Alice—who told me she likes men, for the record—suffered a hematoma and decided she wanted to fuck her, I’d put a stop to it. I’d stop it because she deserves better. And that’s the truth, regardless of how generous I was today.”

Quentin snorted again. Rhino style. “Generous? What the fuck happened to ‘anyone who isn’t a serial rapist is essentially fine?’ What we were literally talking about five minutes ago?”

Eliot shrugged, unapologetic. “Exceptions to every rule. Not sure if you knew, but I’m mercurial.”

Quentin shook his head, still stuck. “But you let it go today. No matter what you say, you wouldn’t have done that two months ago and—“

“I can evolve my tactics. I’m not Margo,” he said, taking a final drag on his cigarette before sending the stub off to the magical ether. “I’m aware that sometimes it’s better to caress _before_ you crush.”

It was a play on Machiavelli. Of all people, Quentin would both recognize and appreciate it. But he didn’t comment on the allusion. Instead, he stopped walking, abrupt, faltering behind in the clearing. A smattering of dead golden leaves circled his black boots and his brow was wrinkled as their burnt paper texture. Eliot stared at him. He didn’t really want to do this right now. Not again.

“Side sticker?” He asked, sardonic. But Quentin sighed.

“For the last fucking time,” he said, low and gentle and avoiding eye contact. Apparently they were doing this right now. Again. “You need to cut Kady some slack. I’m serious, El. It’s been long enough.”

Well, it was Eliot’s fault. He responded instead of ignoring the topic. Opened the can of worms. Hardly appetizing.

“I’ve cut plenty. She’s alive, isn’t she?” Eliot meant for it to come out like a dancing quip, a stinging touch. It definitely wasn’t supposed to be guttural and furious. But you can’t win ‘em all.

Quentin shook his head over and over. “Yeah, she fucked up. I think she’s fully aware at this point. But, like, Jesus, if _I_ ever fucked up, I’d hope—“

He sliced the words in half, dark and firm. “No. Stop. It was more than fucking up. You’d never do what she did. If it was only the energy surge, fine—“

It wouldn’t have been fine. But that wasn’t the point.

“—I wouldn’t be fucking thrilled, obviously, but _fine_. But she systematically, willfully—“

Q laughed, hand in his hair. “Are you a moralist now? Concerned about the integrity of the Brakebills program? You’ve literally traded spells for blow jobs, Eliot.”

“First of all, that was one time, first year,” he said, finger shot out, defensive. His chest clenched. “Second of all, teaching a bunch of eager tweakers some poppers is a little fucking different. She provided a psycho Safe House master with ongoing materials and strategy.”

“Yeah, sure, but like—“ Quentin tightened his jaw and bit his lip. “We can debate the right to magic all day. I know your stance and you know mine. But it doesn’t make Kady a _bad person_ for—“

Eliot stormed ahead, twisting out his flask. “Yeah. You’re right. You know my stance. About everything. So we should drop this.”

“But she didn’t mean for what happened to, uh, happen and—“

“What happened was the inevitable fucking conclusion,” Eliot growled out over his shoulder. He kept walking. He drank. “You know it could have been a hell of a lot worse. And—and if it had been worse? Fuck, Q. The fact that you still don’t take that more seriously…”

“It wasn’t worse though. That’s what actually matters.”

Eliot rounded on him, snapping, “No, what matters is that _it could have been_. And so long as that fact remains, you will never convince me that Orloff-Diaz is redeemable.”

Quentin took a deep breath, like he was summoning patience. “I get why it upset you so much, but—”

“Yeah, this is why we have to drop this subject,” Eliot said, pressing the cool steel of his flask against his temple. He closed his eyes. “Because it is unclear to me why it didn’t upset you more. And—and that’s a rabbit hole we don’t need to follow.”

Quentin’s feet shuffled over the crackling ground. A twig broke with a tiny snap. His voice was smaller than the sound. “I guess I just think people deserve second chances. I believe in forgiveness.”

Eliot’s throat was burning hot. “You’re a better person than me. Everyone knows that. But you’re acting like she didn’t—“

“I know she fucked up the Cottage—“

Eliot’s eyes snapped open and the world was red. “You think _that’s_ my problem?”

“Well, yeah, I mean, along with everything else too,” Quentin said, eyes and lips casting downward. “But you spent weeks cleaning it up and I know it’s, like, your baby—“

“We are done talking about this.”

Q swallowed and he sighed, rubbing his neck. “Look, no, I know the other shit was worse. But I’m just, like—I also know that maybe your concerns seemed inconsequential in light of everything else and I want to acknowledge that—“

“Quentin,” Eliot almost laughed his name out, hanging on the edge of hysteria. “I said I’m done, okay? We’re not going to agree. I don’t want to fight with you. Especially not about this.”

“I never want to fight with you,” Q said, swallowing and quiet. He blinked his gaze off toward the forest. Eliot went still. “Or, um, I don’t like fighting with anyone.”

Right.

The long strands that framed his face fell out of the bun and Quentin pushed them back, closing his eyes. “So we’ll change the subject. Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry,” Eliot said, lifting his flask to his lips. It was filled with whiskey that morning. Excellent match for the chill in the air and the weird vibe between them. “Obviously you should be able to talk about it. But if you want sympathy for the devil, I’m not your guy.”

“I get it,” Q said, with a sad half-smile. “We experienced it differently. It’s the same for Jules.” He paused. “She and Kady used to be close.”

Eliot nodded, turning his face into the wind’s sting. “I know. I remember.”

“I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my friends.” 

His voice was so quiet that Eliot could have pretended he didn’t hear him. He considered it. He also considered telling Quentin that it was an impossibility, at least where he was concerned. Both would have been stupid decisions.

So instead, he rolled his eyes and sputtered out a breath. “Don’t project, Coldwater.”

The silence that settled over them wasn’t as comfortable as earlier. But it wasn’t bad. The clouds parted and sunlight peeked through the brittle branches above. It slanted and refracted, cloaking the gray-brown earth with hints of gold. Royal embroidery on peasant garb.

“What would your list look like?” Quentin asked, out of nowhere. He sat on the same rock they always found when they were out of the wards. He hadn’t realized they’d walked so far. “If someone was going to set you up?”

Eliot was still too on edge to be anything but coarse. He considered digging out another cigarette. “Has a dick, won’t stay the night.”

The edges of Quentin’s lips quirked down. Then up. They settled in a straight line and he cleared his throat. “Right. Yeah. Okay.”

Eliot opened his mouth and closed it. He felt like all the oxygen had been sucked out of him in a single punch. “I don’t know, Q. I don’t think about that kind of thing. You know that.”

“Because you don’t want it?”

Eliot easily fought his first instinct, the one driven by his stupid heart, buried deep below the surface. The one that threatened to say something he couldn’t take back. Because what the fuck could he even do with that, if he acknowledged it? If he said it out loud? He could have as many private fantasies about domestic bliss as he wanted, but Eliot knew who he was. He knew where he came from. He knew what was reasonable to expect in his life. Wanting was second nature. Having was a fairytale.

But luckily, the fight was little more than muscle memory. He let out a breath and shook his head.

“Why have one thing when you can have everything?” Eliot said, arch and nonchalant. The words were frail on his lips.

Quentin shrugged, still smiling. Still sad. “I wish I was more like you.”

Eliot actually laughed, amused and bitter at once. “That—is the epitome of a genie wish that backfires and then destroys your whole life.”

“But you’re so _laissez-faire_ about shit,” he said, scooting over so Eliot could sit next to him. He sunk down onto the rock without thinking about it, magnetic. “It would be good for me to be, uh, more like that. About everything.”

“You could stand to chill out a bit, sure,” Eliot said, though he smiled. “For your own sake.”

Quentin rang his tongue across his teeth and darted his eyes. “Yeah. I know. It fucks me over all the time but—it’s my doom. My curse.”

“At least you aren’t hyperbolic.”

That got a tiny smile out of him. Eliot felt like his heart stretched down the length of his ribcage, tingling into his stomach. 

“But I want to, you know, get married, have kids, eventually. Well, _one _kid,” Quentin said, sticking his tongue out. “Even if I’m too much of a mess to, like, get through a date without panicking right now. I still want it. But I’m sure you think that’s dumb.”

Eliot swallowed sawdust and nodded like a floating bobble head. He let out a tiny chuckle, breathier than he would have preferred. His fingers tapped, twitching against his will. He squeezed his index finger into a vice and brought his hands up to his lips.

“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he said, a heavy weight pressing and pressing on his sternum. “What matters is that if you want that, you’ll get it. One of these days.”

He hoped it wasn’t anytime soon. Holy shit, he hoped it wasn’t anytime soon. He knew they were _old enough_, whatever the hell that meant. He knew that any relationship Q had could turn into something long term. Something that would end up with Eliot standing at the front of some nondenominational church, by Q’s side. Passing rings with a supportive grin and a kind wink to the lovely woman in white. 

(Had to be a woman. It had to be a woman.)

Eliot knew that it was a matter of time. It was unavoidable. When, not if. And at the same time, he wanted it for him, because he—cared about Q, in a way he cared about almost no one else. But Eliot was a selfish man who didn’t like to share. He’d already compromised with Margo. He knew most of his connections were ephemeral, that he was gripping sand. And despite everything, the inevitability of being stylish Uncle Eliot in the city was crushing, much as he projected it as his chosen path. 

But Q was his best friend and he wanted him to be happy. He wanted him to be happy. So.

So.

He ruffled Quentin’s hair and grinned. He hoped it reached his eyes. “So don’t worry that pretty head of yours, okay?”

“Yeah, as discussed, I’m good at that,” Quentin said, snorting. “Not worrying.”

Eliot stared up at the sky. A plane trailed overhead. “Well, remember, Q. You can’t hurry love. No, you just have to wait. Love don’t come easy. It’s a game of—”

Quentin flipped him off. He really had tried to cut back since Alice called him out on the frequency, but it was like he couldn’t help it. Eliot chuckled—he’d kind of missed his pencil-calloused old friend, Freddy the Fuck You Finger. He smiled back and relaxed, sighing into silence.

Shimmering in the flecked light, a sliver of a broken leaf twirled down. It landed soft in Quentin’s hair, next to his temple. Eliot brushed it away and let his thumb linger on the delicate skin below his hairline. It was an instinct. It sent shockwaves up and down his extremities.

Q’s eyebrows twitched and he glanced over, a mild question in his eyes. Eliot snatched his hand back.

“Sorry,” he said, in a whisper. He cleared his throat. His voice was normal again. “You had a leaf in your hair.”

Quentin smiled, unconcerned. He looked upward, squinting. “Starting to make their way down. Though the colors are less vibrant this year.”

“Too much rain,” Eliot said without thinking. He clenched his fist, fingernails biting into his palm. He was supposed to forget shit like that. He’d been remembering too much shit.

Q didn’t seem to think much of it. He smirked, glancing over at Eliot through his lashes. “Well, the signs are all pointing to only one thing—“

“If you say _Winter is Coming_, I will kill you.”

* * *

tbc.


	4. Every Sort of Mischief

** _Brakebills University, October 2016_ **

** _*_ **

**(Part Three of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: According to Julia, “Gaydar” is Nothing But Confirmation Bias, So Let’s All Calm the Hell Down)**

* * *

“The answer isn’t always _penis_, Eliot,” Alice said, stern. He chuckled over his drink. 

Ice clinked against crystal as he brought it up to his lips. Brakebills had scheduled a rain day on a fucking Saturday, because Fogg had neither decency nor shame. The one silver lining was that he had the excuse to concoct several glasses of a warm whiskey, mezcal, and cacao blend. Not to be outdone even by himself, he topped it off with the tiniest hint of a scalp-tingling charm in a single ice cube for an extra zing and a hint of contrast. The drinks were coziness in a glass and strong as hell, getting his two yellow-haired companions pleasantly tipsy in short order. Currently, they were sitting together on the couch, knees touching. Perfection.

Of course, less perfect was that the afternoon’s low-key and slow moving festivities had somehow led to them telling each other... riddles? For some goddamn reason? They were like a couple of geriatric sentimentalists. Awful. Disgusting. Boring, boring, boring.

They were made for each other.

Hence, Eliot rested his arm on the back of the couch, bored out of his numbed skull, but silent. He considered a solemn truth: Sacrifice in the name of love was man’s greatest gift. Shakespeare said that. Or maybe it was Phil Collins. Honestly, that would have been a lot more tonally consistent with the whole affair. God, it was boring.

Bringing him unwillingly back to the dull reality, Mike clapped his hands for attention. He gave Alice a small smile. “Let’s try another. I swear, I’m going to stump you at some point, young lady.”

She cleared her throat and glanced away. “Maybe.”

Wagging a mock-chastising finger at her with a wink, Mike held himself high and spoke in a false English accent. It was corny. 

”_I'm offered to the loved, and also on the sick bed. I come in varied hues, most notably red. Twelve of my full heads lead to tender words said. What am I_?”

“Okay, but that one has to be dick,” Eliot said, flat and serious. He only broke into laughter when Alice sent a quick magical zap at his wrist.

“A rose,” she said with a tiny smile at Mike, not sparing Eliot even half a glance. Mike bowed, inclining his head with an impressed shine in his eyes. Jesus, things were going really fucking well. Every single one of Mike’s dorky riddles had been thematically linked in the language of _l’amour _and directed entirely at Alice. He couldn’t have planned a better chaste slow burn courtship if he tried. Not that he would ever try for that bullshit. But the victory was sweet, even if roundabout.

“Okay, okay. You’re good,” Mike said, nudging Alice with the tip of his elbow. He winked at Eliot over the top of her head. “Definitely getting more of them right than Mr. El over there. Sitting so far away.”

"This is the best spot to keep abreast of the goings-on," Eliot said with a gracious head nod. He was on the couch perpendicular from them, curled against the furthest arm. Giving them space was crucial but he couldn't say that so directly. "The host's burden and pleasure."

“I also don’t think he’s really trying. These have all been pretty easy,” she said with a frown. Eliot cleared his throat and gave her a hard look. She squeaked and attempted a smile. “Fun though! If you have any left, I’d love to hear some more, um—riddles?”

The shift happened before Eliot could stop it. The 1930s radio drama _dun-dun-DUN_ musical cue rang loud.

Within seconds of the word spoken aloud for the first time, there was a roaring _vroom_ and a flash cartoon swirling blue flannel, ugly brown leather bag, and nerd. Tangled limbs landed on the couch next to him, staring at Mike and Alice with way too intense eyes. 

Eliot sighed and palmed at his aching temples. His fault. He should have seen this coming. Tactical error.

“Wait, you guys are telling _riddles_?” Quentin asked. His hands tapped on his bouncing knees and his homework was left abandoned on the daybed behind them. “Is that—is that what’s happening? I didn’t realize.”

“How’s your work going, Coldwater?” Eliot asked, glaring down at the top of his head. “Wouldn’t want to lose your concentration.”

He refused to pour him a drink.

Quentin ignored him. Or rather, he slid his terse eyes over once and then back to Alice. “Not to brag, but I was crowned Riddlemaster of the Month twice in undergrad. What school are you focusing on? Logic, word play, mathematics? Enigma, conundra?”

Jesus Christ. Fucking Quentin. Eliot sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and bit at his poison ring. “Yeah. No world where that’s a brag.”

He snorted, smug and mocking. “Except I think you’re maybe underestimating how big the riddle community is at Columbia, Eliot.”

Fuck. He was cute. It was obnoxious how cute he was. He bit back a smile and focused on his drink. His hairline tickled itself.

“Mike was sharing a few. Nothing particularly, ah, formally categorizable,” Alice said, smoothing down her skirt fabric. “You’re welcome to join, of course.”

Oh boy. Nononono. Eliot shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Now, I’m sure Q is very busy and—“

“Never too busy for a riddle,” Quentin said, staring intently at Mike. He smacked both of his knees at once. “Hit me.”

Mike’s face filtered through several shades of irritated before he sighed. He plastered on a polite smile. “I have one more. _You can use me to say hello, and to say goodbye. I'm no good when I'm too dry. I can be quick or I can be slow. What am I?_”

Uh.

“You’re fucking with me now, right?” Eliot asked, actually a touch incredulous. But Quentin was staring at Mike like he was a third-grader who ate the wood shavings from the bottom of the class hamster cage.

“Oh, wow, okay,” he said slowly, quirking his lips down. “But like—do you have any riddles that didn’t come from a Brain Quest flashcard set?”

God, he could be such an ass. It was kind of hot. 

But that aside, he was undermining Mike in front of Alice. To prove the point, she let out a nasal and high-pitched laugh that she quickly covered into a cough. In retaliation for his unnecessary rudeness, Eliot slammed down on the tips of Quentin’s toes with his heel. Q kicked him off, but his tiny eye roll indicated that he got the message.

Mike’s nostrils flared at Quentin, poison in his eyes. “Do you know the answer then?”

“Maybe, um, a kiss?” Quentin said with a sigh and a lazy wave of his hands. “Unless I’m missing some clever layer.”

He said it like that was an utter impossibility. Again, it was kind of hot. But unproductive.

Alice looked apologetic, nervously biting her lip at Mike. “I was actually going to guess kiss too.”

Mike smiled at Alice and ignored Q. “Correct.”

“I guessed it first,” Quentin said, thumbing at his bottom lip. He bit down on the edge of his nail, brows tightening over his burning eyes. “Alright. Enough child’s play. I’ve got a real riddle for you both.”

Eliot scratched at the inside of his nose and pinched the bridge. But Mike nodded politely. With permission granted, Q smiled, all sly. 

“Okay. So. There’s a Japanese soroban with fifteen rods. Standard six beads valued at one-to-five and four-to-one—”

“_Quentin_,” Eliot said with a yelp. He slammed his hand on his thigh, digging in his fingers enough to bruise. “Would you be an absolute dear and grab us a carafe of sparkling water?”

He shot him annoyed look. “No, you can do it. This isn’t your thing anyway.” Quentin turned back to Mike and Alice, excitement returned. He licked his lips and rubbed his hands together. His eyes lit up. “So as I was saying, there’s a fifteen rod soroban—”

“Quentin. No. Wait. Stop,” Alice said. Eliot could have kissed her. She leaned forward. “Do we need paper for this? It sounds like it might involve calculations. Or is mental math the point?”

Motherfucker.

“Shit, yeah. Definitely need some paper, sorry,” Quentin said, nodding and reaching into his messenger bag. He rustled through his notebooks for blank pages. “If you could do it in your head, you’d be the Emperor of Math.”

“Ooh, I like the sound of that challenge,” Alice said, pointedly sitting back with her arms crossed. Her eyes glowed with the heady anticipation of academic glory. “What are you waiting for?”

Quentin held out a ripped spiral bound page and wagged it at Mike. “Do you want?”

“Ah, sure,” Mike said, taking it and shaking his head a little. “I am definitely not the Emperor of Math. Not even a minor oligarch.”

“This might be a little hard for you then,” Q said, brow furrowed. “If you’d rather watch Alice give it a try—”

Mike’s eyes glinted with an unusual touch of sharpness. “No. I’ll play. I can hang with the smart kids.”

Alice smiled, a little forced. “We could solve it together?”

Mike patted her shoulder. “That would be great, Alice.”

“I guess if you need your hand held,” Quentin said, like an asshole. Mike clenched his jaw. “Anyway, the soroban is already set with the following digits: Four. Nine. Two. Five—”

Eliot stood abruptly, kicking Quentin’s shin as he did. Oops.

“Since it looks like you’re all settling in, I’m going to get our happy band of riddlers a round of drinks,” he said with a cheerful laugh. He squeezed Q’s shoulder and dipped down. He hissed in his ear. “_Wrap this up fast or I will poison you in your sleep_.”

“_Fuck off, Eliot_,” Quentin shot back, low and out the side of his mouth. He smiled again, continuing. “Eight. Nine. Nine. Two—”

* * *

Eliot rounded the door frame of the kitchen in search of water and some hidden specialty cocktail ingredients. But he was blessed with something even greater—his heart soared at his favorite sound in the world. The brassy notes ricocheted from every surface deep in his soul and it all burst into light when he finally saw her. His beautiful Bambi, biting harsh into an apple and leaning her hip against the counter. 

Also, Julia was there. Hooray.

“That’s cute that you were a cheerleader,” Margo said, not noticing him yet. Her perfect eyes were zeroed in on Julia. She sucked in a pouty lower lip. “I was _head_ cheerleader.”

“Of course you were,” Julia said with a laugh. Then she bit her own lip in turn. “I could have been. But I was also Class President, Model U.N. chair, the top scoring Debate Club champ—“

“Aw, baby. You think all this is impressive, but it only speaks to what a huge dork you were,” Margo said, giggling into Julia’s cheek. She kissed once and then pulled back, simpering. “Let me guess? You were Homecoming Queen too.”

Julia flushed. “That’s not relevant.”

Margo’s face broke out into the widest grin and Eliot cleared his throat, trying to call attention to himself. They either didn’t notice him or they ignored him. Unacceptable either way. He cleared his throat again, all the louder.

Still nothing.

“So cute,” Margo said to Julia with a sharp intake of breath. “And with Quentin following you around, carrying your sash and purse while you made out with your strapping date. Lap dog extraordinaire.”

Julia snorted. “Oh, yeah, Q definitely went to Homecoming. He definitely didn’t spend the whole night at home in a solo protest of_ the status quo,_ playing Devendra Banhart’s version of “Little Boxes” on repeat.”

Eliot swallowed a laugh. He wouldn’t give Julia the satisfaction. He was annoyed at them. So he cleared his throat, _again_. 

… They were jerks.

“Which was still the cooler choice,” Bambi said, all shit-eating-grin. She narrowed her eyes and held the tip of her tongue between her teeth. “Quentin was cooler than you.”

“Take it the fuck back!” Julia’s fingers tickled into Bambi’s side and the two of them shrieked in laughter against the counter. 

Eliot rolled his eyes. Bored now.

“Afternoon, Bambi,” he said, fully crossing the threshold. He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, but she didn’t so much as glance at him. Her eyes were still locked on her stupid girlfriend.

“Hi honey,” she said, half-aware. Julia nuzzled into Margo’s neck. They were gross. “Excited for our plans today.”

Reaching for the pitcher on the counter, Eliot poured a glass of water and wished it was vodka. Still, it was good. Artisan sparkling was always worth the money. When he turned back to the girls, though, Margo tucked into Julia, both of their pupils wide like dolls.

“Mmm, but maybe we could both wear our old uniforms sometime. And I could be like, _Your moves are good, sweetie, but I’m not sure you’re ready for the squad_,” Margo said in a breathy whisper. She pulled her close so their chests touched. “Then you could, you know, convince me otherwise.”

“Or we could be rival captains, after the same quarterback,” Julia said, eyes twinkling. She entwined their fingers. “But when we do a striptease cheer off for his affections, we realize we wanted each other all along.”

Eliot let out a strangled sound and stuck his tongue out. His blood rushed hot and frustrated, and he hated both of them, deep in his soul. He pushed past Margo’s shoulder, dramatically, and pulled a disgusted face. 

“Holy shit, get a fucking room.”

Margo glared a thousand knives right into his head, but he persevered. He needed tequila. Now. He swung open one of the cabinet doors, looking for his special stash of Patron. And apple brandy. And maybe some grenadine, and bitters, and some Campari, and lime. Go fucking hog wild, with no elegance. Bold and inventive, and above all, apathetic.

“What’s up your butt, Mr. Sex Positive?” Julia asked, a class act. She searched through the Cottage fruit bowl, frowning at the selection even though she didn’t live there.

“Not nearly enough,” Eliot said with a lewd wink. He passed it off as a joke. But it wasn’t inaccurate. 

Truth be told, he hadn’t had sex for a hot minute. He retired his latest round of first years out of boredom and hadn’t found many or any suitable replacements. It was a temporary dry spell (always was), but it probably wasn’t helping anything. It certainly wasn’t helping his mood.

Julia laughed, though, kicking his leg and waggling her eyebrows. Ugh, she was charming. 

He grimaced and took another sip of water. “But I’m also frustrated because Quentin turned Mike’s flirting love riddles with Alice into math. Wet blanketed all over the damn place.”

“Christ. Yeah. That bitch needs to get laid yesterday” Margo said, nodding solemnly. But Julia simply shook her head and pointed right at Eliot.

“Definitely your fault for letting _riddles_ happen within a ten mile radius of Q,” she said, munching on an orange. The juice dripped down her chin and she wiped at it with the back of her hand. “No pity here, dude.”

Touche. He knew that. Still.

“I don’t know. I actually might be Team Cockblock,” Margo said, tapping her chin. “‘Cause on second thought—what the fuck is a _love riddle_?” 

“Riddles where the answers are romantic in nature,” Eliot said, knowing her likely response. As expected, she scowled.

“That’s dumb. Mike’s dumb. I hate Mike.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “I know you do, Bambi. But Alice doesn’t.”

“Mike’s a cock.”

“I know, Bambi.”

“He’s probably anti-choice.”

“I _know,_ Bambi.”

“Quentin and I talk shit about him all the time. I do this hilarious thing where I grunt and say,” Margo affected a slumped over posture and pounded her chest. “_Me Mike, me don’t think women deserve basic autonomy_. It makes Q laugh and laugh, and then he says _Me Mike, me have stupid hair_. Which is funny because he does, in fact, have stupid hair. We have a theory he frosts the tips.”

Bambi sighed dreamily and twirled her hair. “It’s by far the most fun we have together.”

A dark storm cloud of jealousy settled over Eliot’s head. Why didn’t they invite him to these sessions? He could contribute. He would have gone with _Me Mike, me have pointy eyebrows and talk too much about the national debt_. But he took a steadying breath. He reminded himself that he liked Mike well enough. That he really liked Quentin and Margo’s independent friendship. And that none of it was relevant to the issue at hand.

“Goddammit, Bambi, I know,” Eliot said, still a touch impatient. Predictably, Julia laughed in the corner, always delighted Bambi’s stubbornness. “But we want to help Alice get laid. Remember?”

“I only want her to get laid so she doesn’t snap like a goddamn rubber band,” Margo said with a lazy shrug. “Otherwise, holy shit, I don’t care.”

Julia kissed her cheek and smiled up at Eliot.

“Well, I’m about to be Alice’s guardian sex angel,” she said, glancing up at the kitchen clock. “Because Q and I have to get the fuck out of here if we want to make our movie time. I have to reopen the portal, which is such a bitch.”

Eliot winced in support. Portals were indeed a bitch. “Sorry. Mike could actually help with that, if you want.”

She sputtered her lips. “I don’t need no goddamn man.”

“You’re a dream,” Margo said, light and soft, as they made their way out the kitchen. Eliot’s stomach squirmed and he glanced away, his jaw working against his molars. He was ready to have Bambi all to himself. But when they finally reached the stairway, the three of them froze to the spot. 

Kady Orloff-Diaz stood between Alice and Mike. She smiled at Quentin from behind the couch. She stood there talking to them, like she belonged. Like she was a casual part of the group. Just—hangin’ out. In particular, Alice tilted her head upward and smiled at her. Her cheeks were pink and here blue eyes shone with stars that danced beside the moon Kady hung.

With a tiny gasp, Julia reached backwards and clutched Eliot’s hand, fierce and firm. He clutched back. He felt the heavy weight of Margo’s worried eyes on the side of his face, burning like a noontime sun.

“The value is eighty, and the duchess took the final bead from the knight,” they heard Kady say, leaning against the couch in a leather jacket. Her arms were folded and her lips ticked up in smug self-satisfaction. Quentin dropped his pencil and clapped his hands.

“Holy shit, Kady is the Emperor of Math,” he said with a laugh and a bow. Kady’s cheeks flushed and she looked down at the floor. “Gotta be honest, wouldn’t have guessed that. Mea culpa.”

She hugged her arms tighter and her eye twitched. She cleared her throat and painted on a smile. “Well, that’s because you’re—secretly kind of an asshole, Coldwater.”

“Fair enough,” Quentin smiled. Mike laughed a bit too loud.

What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Eliot swallowed and held the back of his free hand to his brow. He felt Bambi’s cool fingers grip his wrist and Julia’s fingers at the same time, but he couldn’t register much sensation beyond it. Alice and Kady tittered over the notes and Mike smiled at them, all while sending annoyed glances Q’s way. It appeared to be a normal tableau. But all Eliot felt was the force in the palm of his hand rev up. Good. _Good._

“Who the hell does she think she is?” Julia asked, breaking through the moment, whisper harsh. She started to push her way forward. “Who the fuck does she think she is?”

But Margo’s arm flew out in front of her, like an immovable parking lot gate. “Julie. You are going to ruin your whole damn day if you charge in there guns blazing.”

Eliot blinked, long and slow. Once again— 

What the fuck?

He cast his wary eyes right at Margo. “Wait. What the fuck? _You’re_ advocating for _not _guns blazing?”

For a flash, Bambi looked like a toddler caught in the forbidden candy jar. But then it was gone, steel in her eyes. She scoffed and ticked a signature eyebrow.

“You know I like playing Poke the Nerd as much as anyone,” she said, with an air of false indifference. “But Q is fucking exhausting when he’s self-righteously indignant. It’s a public service.”

She wasn’t wrong about that. But it was still unnerving from Margo’s lips.

“It’s not about Q’s reaction, though,” Julia said, pushing forward into Margo’s arm. Bambi didn’t budge. “It’s about the audacity. And I’m sorry, but he doesn’t stand up for himself. He’s so fucking desperate to be liked that he’ll even—“

“Give him more credit than that,” Eliot couldn’t help but interject. But Julia stuck her tongue out, annoyed.

“I know you two have been on your, like, epic bromance for the past year—“

“_Bromance_?” Eliot laughed, the sound disintegrating into ashes on his tongue. Speaking of audacity.

“—but you still can’t possibly understand how much he needs to be pushed, how little he values his own—“

Eliot’s teeth seared together. Bambi laughed. 

“No, we do. We’ve met him. He’s not that fuckin’ mysterious,” she said, firm yet still softer than Julia deserved. “But take this as a gentle reminder that Q is a grown ass man. He’s not that kid anymore. He doesn’t need you to superhero shield him all the fucking time.”

“You say that like it’s so simple. Like it wasn’t just six months ago that—”

“Hey, fuck you, we were there too. But you have to let him live his life without being a mama bear at the drop of a hat.”

“But he needs it, Margo. Can you seriously not understand everything I’ve experienced for _fifteen years_?”

“Can _you_ not understand that our perspective might be more fucking _objective_? You infantilize the shit out of him, Julie.”

“No, I take care of him. Someone has to and I’m the only one who—“

Eliot cut his hand in between them, like a karate chop. He snapped his fingers. “As much as Q would be deeply flattered by all this whispering about him, can you two wrap it the hell up?”

Julia and Margo stared at each other for a long moment, a silent standoff. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Kady wave a short goodbye and send a rare full smile Alice’s way before heading out the door. Mike turned to Alice himself then, grabbing her attention away from Q and talking to her in low tones. Her eyes lit up and she nodded, excited as he’d ever seen her.

It was all moot now anyway. 

Julia seemed to realize it too, as all the wind deflated right out of her sail. She slumped into herself, exhausted.

“Fine,” she said, tense. Margo let out a breath and rubbed her back. “Fine. But if you’re getting on the pro-Kady bandwagon—“

“When the fuck have I ever been pro-anyone?” Bambi sounded actually annoyed. “Jesus Christ, Julia—“

“Well, it certainly _sounds _like—“

“Want me to kill her? I will. I don’t give a shit. But then _you_ can deal with—“

But whatever else Bambi or Julia were going to say  was cut off by Quentin perking up in his seat and waving at Julia with a buoyant greeting, sweetly earnest and completely unaware of everything that had just occurred. Lucky him.

“Ready to go?” Q asked, smiling. She grinned back, bright. Too bright.

“Sure thing, slugger!” Julia said, walking over to punch him on the shoulder. Quentin blinked and frowned.

“Uh, okay. Weirdo. Let me just grab my bag,” Quentin said, shaking his head a little. He glanced over at Mike and Alice. “Hey, nice work. Both of you.”

“That was fun, Quentin,” Alice said, cheeks wide and smiling. Bless her. Mike grunted. 

Bless him too.

* * *

_His lips were open and pink and trembling. Flushed red cheeks, wide brown blown-out eyes, and mussed hair, jawline sharp and shoulder muscles broad in the starlight. He was stunning. And hard under his hand._

_“That for me, baby?” Eliot asked, hoarse and low. _

_Q’s throat flexed and vibrated as he swallowed, nodding. He whined, eyes closing and head falling back, as Eliot unbuttoned his pants and pulled him out, slow and painstaking. He kept one hand on him, moving, as he crawled up his body, placing soft kisses on every space of skin he could find. Quentin whimpered again and Eliot surged up, finally capturing his lips under his. _

_Fuck, he was the most beautiful man he’d ever seen in his whole stupid life. He wanted every part of him. He wanted to share every part of himself. He would never let anything happen to him, not ever._

_“El—Eliot,” Quentin panted out against him. They were outside, in the grass, on the Sea. His eyes darted, anxious and shy and delectable. The crease between his brows deepened. “Eliot, what—what if someone sees us?”_

_“Then they’ll know you’re mine.” He scraped his teeth against his stubbled throat, tightening his grip below. Quentin squirmed under him, breathless and patchy hot. His hands traveled down Eliot’s body, digging into his hips and reaching as far as he could, desperate to cup his ass. Fuck._

_“Eliot, holy shit, oh my god,” Q moaned out, lifting his head enough to fuck his tongue into his ear. He bit at his earlobe, and Eliot stroked him, harder, longer. “El, fuck. I want you.”_

_He kissed him, deep and slow. “You mine, baby? You’re all mine, aren’t you?”_

_“Fuck. Yes. Only yours.” Quentin’s hips bucked. He was close. He was getting so close, so soon, so quickly. From Eliot, because of Eliot._

_“Q,” he whispered, biting and sucking at his lower lip. He got a low moan in response and he was alive for the first time. “You belong with me. Be with me, baby. Please.”_

_Quentin nodded, thrusting into his hand, voice staccato and groaning in a mournful hymn. “Yes. Yours. I’m—that’s. Me, El. I’m yours. Wanna stay.”_

_Eliot smiled into his mouth, increasing his speed. Quentin gasped and slipped his fingers into his hair, tugging. “El, I’m gonna—too hot for you, if you don’t stop, I’m gonna—“_

_He’d give him anything. He nuzzled the hollow of his throat, kissing up and along his jaw. He spoke as fast as his rhythm. “Come for me, baby. That’s it, my sweetheart, my Q. You’re everything to me. You know that, right? God, Quentin—I—I don’t know what to do about it, baby. So please—come for me, okay? Please come for me, please come—“_

_“Eliot, oh my god,” Q squeezed his eyes tight shut, gripping his whole body around him, heart bursting. Eliot kissed his hairline, holding him tight to his chest, prolonging the sensation, the pleasure, the contact. “Fuck. Eliot. Eliot, I lo—“_

Dreams were a bitch. 

Stretching out his frustrated jaw, Eliot slipped out of bed and into his discarded dress pants. He threw on his red silk robe, tied loose around his waist. He scrubbed at his face with his hands. 

He needed to snap the fuck out of it. 

He was still high. 

He would give his left nut for a dreamless existence.

Eliot flew down the stairs. He was awake, even in the late evening hours. He and Margo had passed out around six after eating weed brownies, deep conditioning their hair, and making out while they cuddled. It had been great. But it also meant he already slept more that day than he did on an average night and he was itching for something to do. A distraction. But unfortunately, the Cottage was quiet. Most people were at some godawful psychic party. Horrible.

But when he turned the corner into the side living room, Eliot perked up when he saw his favorite nerd, reading by the firelight. Not exactly a productive distraction. But. Well. Annoying sex dream aside, Q was still a welcome sight. Always was.

“Hey,” Eliot said, with a small wave. Quentin glanced up and returned it. He closed the pages of his thick book on his fingers. “When did you get back?”

“Awhile ago,” he said, tucking an errant hair behind his ear. “Jules and I had dinner in the city but that was it. She said you and Margo were, like, totally passed out.”

“High as fuck,” Eliot said, shameless. He walked around the second chair and went to slide into it, when he was greeted by a sleeping Todd Bates. Fuck. He sighed.

“Did he talk himself into a stupor again?” Eliot asked, lifting his arm and letting it drop with a heavy thud. Todd growled in his sleep and bit at the air, before curling in deeper on himself. He snored.

“Something like that,” Quentin said, with a gentle smile into his book. “He’s out like the dead, so you might want to pull up another chair.”

“No,” Eliot said with a lofty sigh. All the other chairs were uncomfortable as shit. “We’ll share.”

Quentin pulled his book over his face in pretend concentration. “No. Get another chair.”

“Scoot over, Q.”

“No.”

“Scoot the fuck over,” Eliot laughed as Q grunted, holding up a proud middle finger. He didn’t move his cute butt one inch. “I’m too tall to sit in your lap, Coldwater, but I will to make a point. Move.”

Quentin laid his book on his chest and swept his hand out. “As an alternate, the floor is right there and expansive.”

Brat, brat, brat. He reached over to push at Quentin’s shoulder and it bounced back against the chair. He laughed, stubbornness breaking. He slid over, creating enough space for Eliot to sit close, tight, and almost entirely pressed up against him.

“Hi,” Eliot said with a grin. It was nice. Really nice. Quentin rolled his eyes.

“Happy now?”

“Happier. _You_ could always sit on the floor.”

“Fuck you, I was here first,” he aid without heat. Eliot smiled in victory. Giving in, Quentin dropped his book to said floor and stretched his neck. “So you got your Margo fix then?”

“And how,” Eliot said, curling himself back into the comfort of the chair. It really was the best in the house. “Plus, some bonus excitement: Alice and Mike spent all day cooped up tight in the library together.”

“Thrilling update.”

Eliot smacked him. “They were working on Horomanic portals. One of her many seminar extras and he was the perfect white knight. The porno writes itself.”

“Homework,” Quentin said, still flat. “Yeah, super romantic. You’re a real fairy godmother.”

Eliot knocked his knee against him, passing over the more obvious yet tired joke, and instead shined a playful glare down at him. “Please. Like that isn’t your absolute dream date, you fucking nerd.”

“Well, considering I’ve never been on any date, your guess is as—”

Eliot shook his head, hard and fast. He let out a slight laugh and nudged Quentin. “What the fuck? What do you mean, you’ve never been on a date? You’re an adult man.”

“Well, not in, like, the traditional kind of way,” Quentin said with a shrug. He didn’t seem concerned about it, but Eliot was flabbergasted. “Just never had the opportunity. Didn’t date much in high school and then it hasn’t been my thing since.”

“Never took Jenna to the Times Square Chevy’s?” Eliot smirked, waggling his eyebrows. “Or a special occasion Cheesecake Factory anniversary date? I heard there’s a great one in Yonkers.”

Quentin flicked his ear with his index finger. “My taste isn’t that pedestrian.” Eh. Debatable. “I’m sure I would have at least tried to plan something nice, if I’d ever taken her out.”

“But you didn’t?”

Quentin frowned and Eliot felt bad for pushing the issue. It wasn’t important. He was only curious.

“Uh, well, it’s just—Janie and I mostly, like, hung out in our dorm rooms and fucked when our roommates weren’t around,” he said, thoughtful and remorseful. “And we did D&D campaigns together. That was the height of our romance.”

“Ah. Well, poor Janie,” Eliot said, smiling and light. “Never even got a free meal outta the arrangement.”

“Trust me, that was the least of her complaints. I was a shitty boyfriend.”

Eliot both believed and doubted that at once.

Quentin peered over at him, inscrutable. “But what about you? You don’t exactly seem like the wine ‘em and dine ‘em type.”

“Excuse you, I plan impeccable dates,” Eliot said, cuddling in closer. More to get more space on the chair—Quentin was smaller than him, but he was dense as fuck. Move_ over_. “Half the guys who fuck me are more hoping for the chance to experience the city through my vision.”

“Yeah, I doubt that,” Quentin said and Eliot’s heart stopped. But then Q continued like nothing, reviving all normal functions. “So then, what? You take first years out on the town? When the fuck do you do that?”

That made him laugh. “Brakebills boys? God, no. They don’t know the difference between Cabernet Sauvignon and Cabernet Franc. It would be a worthless endeavor.”

“Fucking morons,” Quentin deadpanned.

“Sometimes you have to scratch an itch, Coldwater,” Eliot said, unrepentant. “But I also like to have my fun with older city sophisticates, so why not eat some cake?”

The first date Eliot had ever planned was at the end of his first year of undergrad. He’d been seeing a boy named Johnny Peterson for a few weeks. It had been eighty percent shy kisses at parties. Ten percent sloppy blowjobs. And ten percent sitting together cross-legged on a bed and listening to _The Book of Mormon_ on repeat. Eventually, he decided he wasn’t going to hide from the world anymore and properly asked him out. Johnny had been enthusiastic, to say the least.

So Eliot wore his best pressed button-down and made a reservation at Sardi’s, like a good goddamn theatre kid. They sat in a giant and shiny red booth, with drawings of Billy Crystal and William Shatner staring them down. They ordered crab cakes as an appetizer and chicken scallopini as a main, sharing to save money. Most notably, the evening was also the first time Eliot felt the heavy jitter of _Bored bored bored I’m fucking bored_. 

He avoided Johnny for the rest of his college experience. The kid was a bit heartbroken, which made him feel bad. It was the first of many though, and much easier that way. It was for the best.

The first good date Eliot ever planned was his senior year of undergrad. He was fucking a performance artist named Byung, no last name. His work emphasized sexuality in the grotesque and fractal algorithmic variability. He was extremely hot. 

So after a gallery performance, Eliot decided on a whim to whisk him away for a night of decadence. He lied their way into Restaurant Daniel. They ordered the most extravagant tasting menu and a bottle of Cristal. Then they dashed before the check came. After, the two of them good ecstasy and danced all night at the Boom Boom Room. They fucked in the bathroom and did some decent coke with a lesser Kardashian. He hadn’t been bored for a second.

He also never saw Byung again. 

Still. Dates were great. He loved going on dates. It sucked that Quentin had never been on a real date. So he said so.

“Well, I mean, I’m sure I’ll go on one. Someday my prince will come or whatever,” Quentin said. He rolled his eyes with forced casualness. He was terrible at forced casualness. It made Eliot smile. 

But.

It sucked that Quentin had been so sequestered for most of his young adulthood. Eliot was hardly sentimental, but a good date was a timeless and universal sort of fun. Quentin was wonderful, but he had his struggles and it—sucked. He deserved a nice date, with a nice date, more than anyone he knew.

Not that Eliot thought there was any world where Quentin would enjoy, say, Eleven Madison Park. His anxiety over the formality would tank the night alone. But for someone capable of getting him over the It’s Time to Get Out of the House, You Hobbit hump, he could see Quentin enjoying a fun and quiet gastropub. Hearty food, good wine and cider. In the West Village? Q would complain that the environs were bougie, but he’d secretly love it. Much as Eliot joked, Quentin was actually more a clumsy and obvious elitist than mundane. Think The Spotted Pig instead of Planet Hollywood.

Anyway, after, the two of them could walk southeast to find some hipster dive bar with a rooftop. One with a great view over the river, but less than $20 cocktails. The holy grail. They would share cigarettes outside. They'd talk for hours about nothing, while they got giggle drunk on shitty whiskey gingers. And Q would stand with his hair blowing in the night wind and smile out into the world, relaxed and happy. Just—fucking happy. Like he should always be. 

And maybe then, Quentin would realize that he and his date had something special between them. Something real and terrifying, yeah. But also sort of beautiful and worthwhile and even, fuck, _hopeful. _Which was definitely something neither of them exactly expected in their lives. Maybe the two of them would finally say fuck it. What the fuck are we doing? This is worth taking a chance on. This is worth trying. This is worth—

“Uh, hello? El?” Quentin nudged him, teasing eyes reflecting the flickering fire. “Earth to asshole?”

Eliot blinked. He shook his head and cleared his throat. 

Shit. 

_Shit._

He grabbed the half-drunk green bottle from its precarious position between Q’s torso and a throw pillow. “Stop being a wine hog.”

“You disappeared for a second there,” Quentin said, face folded in amusement. “Where’d you go?”

Eliot forced a laugh. Shitfuckgoddamn. Things were weird. Things had been weird. It was all catching up with him. Like Margo said it would. Fuck you, Margo.

(He needed to get _laid_.)

“I’m still high from earlier,” Eliot said instead of any of that. Of course. Also, it was true. “Hoberman left Bambi with a ton of the good shit last time he was here.”

Quentin gave a disinterested nod and Eliot remembered his manners. He knew the answer, but offering was key. “Would you like some? Plenty left.”

“No thanks,” Q said, stretching his whole body out like a cat. “They fuck with me more often than not.”

Quentin kicked his legs up and over Eliot’s knees, resting his ankles on the chair arm. It was the kind of casual ease they always had with each other. It made Eliot feel like he was going to choke. But Q continued, like there was nothing going on. Because there wasn’t. 

“I don’t think his shit plays well with Zoloft.”

Eliot pulled the wine bottle to his mouth. Genuine curiosity tugged his thoughts to the present. “I thought you were on Abilify?”

“Switched,” Quentin said, dropping his head back. His jaw cut upward like an arrowhead. “I was having trouble sleeping again. Plus, the psychosis stuff isn’t—I don’t think I’m—I’m not, uh, dealing with that anymore—I mean—”

“It’s fine, Q,” Eliot said, soft. He pressed his hand down on his knee, stroking the bony ridge with his thumb. Not to soothe, but to cut off his spiral. “Doesn’t matter. It was an idle inquiry.”

But Quentin sat back up, intense and intent as he stared off. “Fogg and Lipson think my brain chemistry is stabilizing because of access to magic—”

“That’s horseshit,” Eliot said, cutting him off. He couldn’t help it. He also didn’t want to hear it.

“I know,” Q said, like he didn’t know but didn’t want to argue. “Whatever it is, I really have been more stable lately. Not exactly happy. But it’s better. I guess.”

“That’s great.” What else could he say? He wasn’t a psychiatrist.

Quentin directed his intensity at the fire. “Are you happy?”

_No_. “Yeah.”

He cut a glance at him. “Yeah?”

Eliot rolled his eyes, wide and for effect. “Yes, mother.”

Q let out a breath and his eyes twitched, too knowing. But he didn’t say anything more, opting instead to take the bottle back and nurse a long sip. For a quiet while, they sat there, together and drinking. Eventually, Quentin reopened his book. It was a sci-fi novel with a too-long title. And Eliot zoned out, lost in blissful nothing. The fire died as they crossed over the midnight threshold.

“The octopus ate all the Oreos!”

Fucking Todd jolted awake with a nonsensical holler. His hands reached everywhere for stable ground. His hair was mussed and he panted for breath.

“Morning, Todd,” Q said, droll and not looking up from his book. Eliot chuckled, leaning back against the chair and lolling his head over to look at the silly boy beside them in full.

“Wow. Whoa. Hey, you two,” Todd said, scrunching his brow and shaking his head. “Is it really morning?”

“Uh, technically,” Quentin said, looking down at his dorky little Timex. “But you’ve only been asleep for about three hours.”

“Feels like three weeks,” Todd said, stretching his arms up in the air. He smiled and sat up. “How’s it going, Eliot?”

Everything he said was so obnoxious. “I’m fine.”

“That’s good!” He said, all bright and ugh. Then he rubbed his stomach in a circular motion. “Boy. I’m kinda hungry. If I made some nachos, would you want in?”

Eliot sneered. “Of course not.”

But at the same time, Q perked up and said, “I could go for some nachos, yeah. Thanks.”

Todd gave Quentin a thumbs up and stood. “Cool. I’ll heat some up for you.”

Eliot sighed, put upon and annoyed. He thrust himself out of the chair and Quentin’s legs fell to the ground with a thud. Everyone was always forcing him to do everything. 

“Fine,” Eliot said, snappish. Todd’s face circled through several emotions, landing on little bewildered. “I’ll help you. You’ll fuck it up otherwise.”

Todd’s uncanny valley eyes went extra wide. “Can you fuck up nachos?”

“What type of peppers were you going to use?” Eliot asked, a challenge. If the answer was anything other than a combination of jalapeños and red bell, he was ill-equipped. As expected, Todd stuttered.

“So I was going to, like, melt some pepper jack on tortilla chips and then maybe add some bottled salsa, sour cream, and cilantro?“ He frowned at Quentin. “Unless you have the cilantro-tastes-like-soap thing?”

“I don’t think so. It, uh, tastes like cilantro—“ Q started to say, but Eliot scoffed over him.

“Wrong answer,” he said to Todd, rolling his sleeves up. “Come along then. If you’re going to be using my kitchen—”

“It is not _your_ kitchen, Eliot,” a traitor said.

Eliot shushed Quentin and glared down at Todd from his full height. To his credit, he cowered and nodded.

“Super happy to have your help,” Todd said, swallowing nervously. At Eliot’s darkening stare, he blanched and shook his head. “No, I mean, I’m happy to help _you_. Of course. I’m sure you can teach me a lot. You’re, like, so smart and good at things.”

“Very well,” Eliot said, relatively pleased. He ignored Quentin’s soft little _Oh, come on, Todd_ and looked the sad boy up and down. He would hold him back from making ideal nachos, but technically it was his idea. So. “You can grate the cheese.”

“Well, actually, there’s pre-packaged—”

“You can grate the cheese, Todd.”

As they made their way to the kitchen and Todd babbled stupidly about the time he accidentally portaled to Oaxaca, Quentin coughed. It was a loud, barking sound. It was at once sharp-pitched and guttural, like it came deep from his bronchial cavity and bounced off his diaphragm. It also sounded suspiciously like _Control freak_. 

But that couldn’t be right. Poor thing must be getting sick. He would have to make him some tea.

* * *

_SMS with “_ ** _Q (cute face w long hair + flannel)_ ** _”  
_ _10/31/16, 8:32 PM_

how’s your daddy?

No

no what?

No, Eliot  
You’re fucking gross

jeez sorry for caring  
gutter brain

Uh-huh

fine  
how was dinner w your dearest father  
the incomparable ted coldwater  
on this the day of all hallow’s eve?

My dad is fine, dickhead  
You in the city?

here and queer  
last chance to be cool

That ship sailed years ago

i know  
but there’s a portal from montclair   
right into port auth & then easy train to bk

Not easy unless Mike lives in Bed-Stuy

shit, williamsburg   
ugh he’s so basic

Williamsburg’s nice

no accounting for taste  
come to the party

I don’t have a costume

kurt cobain’s nerd brother  
done

Har har  
I’m not going

come ON

This is a once in a lifetime opportunity  
The Cottage will be empty tonight

so?

Being home alone at the Cottage is like…   
My ultimate fantasy  
Reading, tea, music, bliss

quentin  
i am a renowned purveyor of earthly delights   
and you say that shit to me? 

Renowned?  
By who?

whom  
p.s. you’re banished

K.

don’t you dare

K.

brat

* * *

Eliot didn’t love ceding hosting rights. 

He especially didn’t love the idea of ceding hosting rights to Mike McCormick and his shitty Brooklyn apartment complex. He also especially, _especially_ didn’t love giving up Halloween, once the true ruling party night for the Physical Kids. But it was the Illusionites year, a tenuous truce brokered by the dean after too many years of in-fighting. So he couldn't throw his own party and they had a multiple exclamation point texted invite to Mike’s extravaganza. The choice was obvious. At least the four of them were in the city, brimming with possibility and costumed adventure.

And getting laid. Dear motherfucking god, _getting laid_. It was still Eliot’s longest dry spell in—

Fuck.

It was Eliot’s longest dry spell.

It was his own fault. It was brought on by his complete lack of interest in the available Brakebills boys. They were all too dull or too tall or too annoying to catch his interest, even for a quick mouth fuck. Normally he wasn’t so discerning, but he also couldn’t get it up if his stomach was churning at the very notion. So heading into the city, with the chance to meet new people was exactly what he needed. Because it was getting untenable. All of it.

Before heading into Mike’s brick-and-warded Magician building, Julia built out small pocket portals. That way they could each change into their costumes rather than walking through the city, too cold and too tacky. Done well before the rest, Eliot lit a cigarette and waited, taking in the crowd. So far, nothing and no one interesting. He took a long drag and let the smoke settle in his lungs, harsh and unforgiving. Lung cancer was worth it.

The portal swooshed and Julia and Margo stepped out. They looked delightful and delicious in the traditional ‘Hot Girls in Lingerie on Halloween’ style. In particular, Julia wore a pink silk negligee and held an oversized cigar between her fingers. Eliot tilted his head.

“Okay, I’ll bite,” he said, looking her up and down. “What’s with the cigar?”

“Here’s a hint: Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Julia said, chuckling like she was clever. He shook his head. She sighed and then grinned. “I’m a Freudian Slip.”

“I hate you,” Eliot said, without missing even the microsecond of a beat. She reached up and patted his cheek, murmuring _Don’t be jealous_. 

As if.

Meanwhile, Margo, dressed in a black corset and thigh-highs, came up behind her and bit at her neck. Not because she was wearing a vampire costume. She just really liked biting necks. “Let’s go get drunk and dance, nerd.”

Julia smiled and nuzzled Margo’s cheek. “Lead the way, hot mama.”

Bambi slid her eyes over to Eliot and pouted. “Meet us in there, El? Once Elsa gets done taking her sweet damn time?”

Eliot lifted the collar of his slinky sequin suit jacket, adjusting the fit against his bare chest and back. The array of necklaces clinked and pulled at his chest hair, in contrast to the smooth silk of his long scarf sliding all the way to his visible hip bones. He bit at the filter of his cigarette, the smoke filling his mouth in a dizzy haze. 

“How’s my hair?” Eliot asked her. She looked him up and down, and gave him a tiny smile.

“You know it looks good,” she said, puckering her lips. He grinned and pulled a drag. It was true. It was full and curly and luscious. Atop his sultry drawn eyes and thigh-high riding boots, it was obvious he’d get to fuck his pick of the litter that night. At least, once he got Alice situated. 

Fucking finally. Jesus Christ. 

“It looks damn good,” he corrected with a purr. Margo kissed his cheek and dragged her girlfriend toward the door, cupping her ass with her bright red fingernails. Julia shrieked and giggled. They were gross.

Finally, the portal swirled one more time and Alice appeared. She wore her ubiquitous pink fuzzy sweater and a large poodle skirt. Her hair was pinned up in retro curls and she traded her usual glasses for rhinestone studded cat eyes.

Goddammit.

“What happened to the costume Bambi picked out?” He asked, demanding. Her eyes flew open wide and she stuttered.

“It was _obscene_, Eliot,” she said, pursing her lips. “I looked like—I looked like a lady of the night.”

“A what?” he asked, innocently tilting his head over. “I don’t know that term.”

Alice widened her eyes and leaned in, hissing through her teeth. “A _sex worker_, Eliot.”

“What’s wrong with being a sex worker?”

“Nothing!” Alice squeaked, skin pale. “I’m not—I’m not saying there’s anything—I just don’t want to dress like—oh my god.” 

He grinned and beckoned her into his side, popping a short kiss on the top of her rambling head.

“Come on, you misogynist,” Eliot said, much to Alice’s immediate protest. “The night awaits.”

* * *

The inside of the party was green foaming punch and small bats flitting around. Otherwise, the most elaborate illusion was a bloody-mouthed chupacabra Hillary Clinton. It stomped through the maze-like room, yelling _Where's... Monica? Hunnggrryy!_

Yeah. That was all anyone needed to know about the decor.

(Margo and Julia would set it aflame by the end of the night. Guaranteed.)

But Eliot was spared the need to think too deeply about it as an amiable Mike walked toward him and Alice with a giant wave. He dressed in all black with two electrode bolts coming out the side of his neck. The top of his head was magic’d flat and his skin magic’d green. It matched the punch, which seemed to be a dubious mix of Malibu, green Kool-Aid, and a mystery liqueur. 2/10.

“Eliot! Eliot, Eliot, Eliot,” Mike said, throwing his arms around him in a giant hug. He grinned and returned it. He really was a great hugger. Mike pulled away and looked him up and down, shaking his head. “Outdoing yourself _again_, sir. Best costume of the night.”

“It’s not _of_ anything though,” Alice mumbled into her drink. She made a tiny disgusted face at the taste and put it down gingerly on the plastic covered table. Finally hearing her voice, Mike took a short breath and smiled, tentative. He was still a little shy around Alice. 

“Alice,” he said, taking her hand. Her cheeks turned pink despite herself. “As always, it’s a pleasure to see you.”

“Thank you, Mike,” Alice said with a tight smile. “Your costume is well-done. It’s a classic take. I like that.”

“Costume? What costume? ‘Tis I,” Mike spoke in a loan groan, with his his hands held out in front of his chest, “Fearsome Frankenstein.”

Alice’s cheeks sucked into her teeth like she’d eaten an extra sour lemon. Eliot squeezed her shoulder. She could keep it together. Mike laughed and chuffed under her chin, before looking around. A small smirk crossed his lips.

“So, ah—no Quincy tonight?” Mike asked, arms around both Eliot and Alice.

“Quentin,” she quietly corrected.

“Q’s being antisocial,” Eliot said with a sigh.

“Well, that’s a shame,” Mike said, though he smiled wider with more than a glint of unadulterated joy. “I like Quincy. He seems like he’d be a _really_ good friend.”

“His name is Quentin,” Alice said again, firmer. Mike laughed and squeezed them in tighter to him.

“My mistake. Of course. We’ll have a drink for him later,” Mike ushered them through a spun illusion of cobwebs and the dulcet tones of Monster Mash. “Come this way, and enter Fearsome Frankenstein’s lair. Dance floor is to the left—”

As Mike kept talking and giving them the grand tour of the beige apartment, Eliot grabbed Alice’s arm and pulled her in close. It was time for a pep talk-slash-real talk. A jangling skeleton boogied above them, singing _Restore America now, before she looks like me_, to the tune of "The Yellow Rose of Texas."

“Two things. One, he thinks Quentin is competition,” Eliot said, leaning into Alice’s ear. “So he’s _pretending_ to get his name wrong.”

But Alice frowned. “Well, that’s petty.”

“Two, don’t correct him.”

She averted her gaze, all innocent. “About Quentin’s name?”

“No. The other thing.”

“But—“

“Alice. Don’t correct him.”

She bit her lip. “I want to correct him.”

“I know you do, honey. Don’t.”

“Quentin would have corrected him immediately,” Alice mumbled, pouting. Eliot laughed.

“He sure would have,” he said, maneuvering her by the lower back toward the bar. “As a general rule, if you can figure out what Q would have done, go with the opposite instinct.”

She considered it and then nodded, taking his hand. “Okay. That’s reasonable.”

With a laugh and a twirl into the red and orange lights, Eliot and Alice bopped their way to Bobby Pickett. Aggressive Republican shit or not, the party still swallowed them whole.

* * *

Later, Mike asked him if he wanted to go outside for a cigarette. 

At the time, Alice was dancing with Margo and Julia, so it seemed a suitable course of action. They could shoot the shit and get a nicotine fix, then head back toward their separate nights.

As he always maintained, he liked Mike well enough, even with the shitty Republican stuff. He could get over it for the sake of a friendly acquaintance. He imagined they would chat about Brakebills and then run out of things to say to each other like they usually did. So they’d smoke in silence and then do the bro head-nod back into the party. 

All good. All swell. All fine. All to say—

Eliot certainly had not _intended _to end up plastered against a wall with Mike’s hands down his pants and tonguing laving up and down his throat. 

Really. 

But the best laid plans of mice and hot men often go awry.

Which—shit—Mike was really, really hot and Eliot was really, really horny. And he fucking hated that word under most circumstances. That night though, he was so keyed up and live-wire charged that he felt like a teenager. Ready to burst and just fucking—_horny_. 

“Damn,” Mike said, his deep voice extra rough as he kissed at Eliot’s collarbone. Eliot let his head fall back against the brick and his eyes fell back into his head. “You are the sexiest man alive.”

_Fuck yes._

“Is that so?” Eliot breathed out, laughing. He pushed Mike’s head down a scooch. You have to buy the lottery ticket after all. “What do you wanna do to me, Mikey?”

Mike squeezed his ass. “I will do literally anything you want me to do, Eliot.”

Well, wasn’t that a motherfucker? Hunger roared in his chest and he snapped his face into Mike’s, kissing him hard. He was a strong kisser and matched Eliot beat for beat. His tongue moved swift and firm, sweeping around like it was on a mission. 

There was no tenderness or joy in his movements. It was pure animal instinct and fuck, if that didn’t scratch a goddamn itch better than anything most days. It wasn’t like he wanted to _date_ Mike. Someone else could sit through his boring stories about Texas or his long spiel about whatever the fuck the Cato Institute was. No, all Eliot wanted was to take what was offered and leave the rest to—

Oh. Shit.

To Alice. 

He was supposed to leave the rest to Alice. If she wanted it. Because Mike was kind of dating Alice, his newest friend who he had promised to help. And what he was doing was not exactly helping so much as actively fucking over.

_Shit._

“Mike—“ Eliot said. He pulled away, lightheaded and spinning. He was so stupid. He was so fucking stupid. “Shit. I can’t believe I’m saying this. But, uh, I—I actually can’t do this.”

With an authoritative scoff, Mike grabbed at Eliot’s hips again, face in his neck. That seemed to be his main move, but he wasn’t complaining. He expertly sucked at the delicate skin there and Eliot saw stars. He forgot why he had protested to begin with. It was fine. It was good. It was really fucking good. It was—Jesus, it was awesome_._

At least, it was awesome. Until Mike whispered the most boner-killing sentence known to man, hot and breathy in his ear. 

“_What Quincy doesn’t know won’t hurt him_.”

Eliot jerked backwards, lips falling open. His arms tensed as they pushed Mike away. His heart flipped over.

What?

“Wait, what?” Eliot’s voice staggered. He laughed. He was unsteady. His sight darted everywhere and he rubbed his nose. “You’re talking about—Quentin?” Holy shit, he did _not_ want to think about Quentin. “No, I’m not—this isn’t—”

Mike stepped in closer again and nipped at Eliot’s earlobe. “God, you could do so much better than that twerp.”

The heat from Mike’s lips on his face made Eliot’s stomach sour. He was a Republican dickbag. He was supposed to be making out with Alice. He had pointy eyebrows.

“Get the hell off me,” he growled, pushing Mike away with a firm hand. “I mean it. This isn’t happening.”

“Hey,” Mike said, reaching up and stroking his thumb against Eliot’s sideburn. “Don’t get me wrong. I kind of get it. He’s a pretty twerp with a cute ass, but—“

Eliot pulled out another cigarette and lit it. The flame burst into Mike’s face and he stepped back, blinking away the spark. Eliot took the opportunity to move away from the wall and paced between the alley, glaring at Mike. “I said no. That’s pretty basic consent shit, McCormick.”

Mike swallowed and took a deep breath. He smiled at Eliot, though he were approaching a feral toddler. It wasn’t helping anything.

“Here’s my elevator pitch,” he said, tugging Eliot in close by the waist. Fuck, he was pretty, even with green skin. His eyes were navy blue on him and slanted in the ghoulish light. “I don’t know anything about wine, or music, or art. But I don’t think Quincy does either.”

Quentin knew nothing about wine. 

But Quentin knew much more than most people about music and art, at least from an academic standpoint. He didn’t necessarily give a shit about any of it, but he knew it. He knew it better than most people. He absorbed things so easily and read so much, even beyond his Fillory obsession. In fact, his careless and encyclopedic knowledge never failed to make Eliot feel like a hillbilly in a tux. Every single fucking time.

None of that was relevant.

“And I’m also pretty sure,” Mike continued, laughing as he brushed his lips back against Eliot’s ear. “I'm sure that I’m hotter, more interesting, and much more eager to learn than him.”

Not even by half on any of those accounts. But again, irrelevant. Q was irrelevant. He was turning Mike down because of Alice, not because of Q. He didn’t owe Q anything. Q didn’t want Eliot to owe him anything.

“Mike,” Eliot said, blinking down his lust as Mike started kissing his jaw. The skin-on-skin contact felt so damn good. But he couldn’t do this. He wouldn’t do this. “Mike, this isn’t happening.”

He traced his tongue around Eliot’s skin. His warm breath puffed air into his ear drum. It reverberated. “Please listen to me. Quincy doesn’t deserve you. You are so much better than him.”

Eliot’s stomach twisted like a cold rag. He pushed Mike off again, with less fervor but more surety. He held Mike by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye.

“Please listen to me, asshole. Quentin and I aren’t together. We’re just friends.” He cursed the waver in his voice with his whole soul and he cursed the quick brightness in Mike’s eyes even more. “But you and I still aren’t doing this.”

“Because you’re not attracted to me?” Mike asked, licking his lips. He shot his eyes downward at Eliot’s tight pants. “Someone would beg to differ.”

Eliot clenched his jaw and thought about baseball. “I mean because of Alice.”

Mike finally looked caught off-guard. He frowned, every feature tensing. “Alice? What? I mean, she’s a very nice girl—“

Eliot scoffed. “A nice girl? You’ve been spending every week with her—”

“No,” Mike said slowly, blinking. “I’ve been spending every week with you. She happens to be there. A lot. A fucking lot. Honestly, she was getting almost as tiresome as Quincy.”

What the fuck? Eliot blew smoke out harsh. “No, _I_ happened to be there. The whole point was—”

“The only reason I didn’t complain?” Mike said with a laugh, holding his hands out and shaking them. It was like he trying to physically rid himself of the implication. “I figured she was your newest fruit fly. I was trying to be welcoming. If I had known that you thought she and I were—I would have made it very clear that I—”

Eliot’s nostrils flared. “I’m sorry. My newest _what_?”

Mike waved his hand and sputtered his lips. “You know. Fruit fly. Cute girl who hangs around with gay guys. Kind of a blonde Margo. But nicer than Margo, thank god. Bitchy hags are out. Good to mix it up with the straight chicks.”

Holy motherfucking shit.

“Are you guest starring in an episode of _Sex and the City_?” Eliot crossed his arms. “What the fuck are you rambling about?”

Mike tilted his head, all soft condescension. “I mean it as a reclamation. A term of endearment wrapped in a power shift. Sorry if it’s not your thing, but—“

“Yeah, straight boys?” Eliot pointed at him with his cigarette. He flared the tip. Pyromancy for the dramatic point. “Don’t get to say shit like that, Mike.”

He laughed. “Straight boy? My tongue was down your throat, Eliot. I was touching your dick.”

“If I had a nickel.”

“Eliot,” Mike said with a small laugh. He shifted back and forth on his feet. He sighed and ran his hand through his flat hair. “You, uh—you know I’m gay, right? I’m very gay.”

What.

“What?” Eliot dropped his cigarette. He called it back up to him and took a long drag. His brain was shorting out on him.

Mike chuckled again and put his hands in his pockets. “I’m talking Kinsey Six gay.”

“What?” 

There was—that was—_what_? Eliot shook his head over and over again. That in no way computed with anything he knew about Mike. He thought over every interaction he had with him. He thought about everything he had ever learned about him. He thought of every conversation they’d ever had, every passing look, every lingering touch. There were so many things he could say to refute, so many obvious ways in which Mike had misled or at least not been as obvious as he thought. But out of his mouth came only one thing—

“You’re a Republican.”

Mike sighed. “I can be a proponent of well-structured small government and sucking cock at the same time.”

Eliot squinted his eyes and tilted his head. “Can you though?”

Mike held his hands up like a surrender and smiled too wide. “Look, I’m not opposed to marriage equality, okay?”

“High bar,” Eliot shot out. “Not opposed.”

“I’m a Texan politician, Eliot,” Mike said, biting each syllable out. “Change isn’t going to happen overnight. I could try to do as many mass brain-control spells as I want to get into office, but—”

“Jesus, that crossed your mind?”

“It crosses every Magician politician’s mind and most of us are Magicians. The literal bloodbath wouldn’t be worth it,” Mike said, huffing. He pulled out his own cigarette and lit it. “But there are certain ways I have to live my life to get the results I want. I make no apologies for that."

Eliot swallowed down a stinging bile and clenched his fists. His fingers popped everywhere, a goddamn nervous tic. “So what—Courtney was your beard then?”

Of course she was. Jesus Christ. Holy shit. What the fuck.

“Court’s a great girl,” Mike said with a fond laugh. “It was nothing so shameful. She’s also very gay. But our arrangement was no longer helpful for either of us. It wasn’t polling well.”

Eliot shook his head, still in shock. “Polling well?”

Mike took a long drag on his cigarette. “I can’t get into it too much, but I’m considering a mayoral run in Lubbock. So my probability spells have been working overtime to see where I’m landing.”

“And?”

“And—politics are getting so extreme as of late,” Mike said, taking Eliot’s hand and stroking his knuckles with his thumb. All he could do was stare down, perplexed more than intrigued. “I need to win hearts in other ways. Lonely boy-next-door looking for love and fiscal responsibility is the new angle. Work the narrative well before the big run. Otherwise, my reasonable Libertarian perspective is a hindrance.”

He could hear—he could hear—Quentin’s derisive snort and _Uh, reasonable Libertarian? Are we listing oxymorons now? Jumbo shrimp. Silent scream. Microsoft Works._

But that was definitely not relevant.

“Why didn’t you broach this two years ago then?” Eliot asked, jaw working overtime. He didn’t give a shit about anything Mike was saying. His answer hadn’t changed. But it still wasn’t making sense to him and he hated that off-kilter feeling.

“I wasn’t sure if I could trust you,” Mike said through a plume of smoke. He looked as though he was stating facts. Sky was blue, grass was green, Eliot was untrustworthy. “I mean, come on. You know you don’t exactly scream discreet.”

Oh. Scratch that. _Eliot was reckless and too queer._ Got it. 

He sucked on his cigarette hard. It was a stub. He was ready to go. But motherfucking Mike was still talking.

“But I don’t know. It’s like you’ve mellowed in the past year or so. You seem more grounded. I thought it was Quincy’s influence—“

“_Quentin_,” Eliot snapped, patience on its last fucking tether.

“—and that made me so jealous, so I knew I had to go for it. Take a risk on the fun guy, you know?”

What a poet.

Eliot laughed and stared down at his feet. “Sure.”

“And then I figured that my lifestyle and goals might even be a perk for you,” Mike said, hand running up and down Eliot’s chest. “No commitment, no pressure. Fucking in portals and planes and hotel suites, no breakfast in the morning. That’s why Quincy being your boyfriend surprised me so much—“

“His name is Quentin and he is not my boyfriend,” Eliot spat out, shaking with anger. He had a headache. He had a terrible headache.

“I know that now. It makes way more sense,” Mike agreed, dopey smile on his stupid slack-jawed face. Eliot responded with a sneering smile of his own. “So what do you say? Should I go grab some lube and a rubber? Do you switch? I exclusively top.”

Eliot’s mouth fell open and he let out a soft, wet sound. “Um. I’m gonna pass. But thanks anyway.”

Mike waggled his eyebrows. “My friend down there seemed to disagree.”

“Yeah, my cock was hard when you were sucking on my chest,” Eliot said, firm and unapologetic. “But I’m not an animal and I’m not interested.”

“Mmm, but I’ll bet you’re a total animal in the sack—”

“Jesus _Christ_, Mike,” Eliot said, edging on real fury. “Are you incapable of taking no for an answer? Because that’s my answer. It’s not fucking happening. Do you understand?”

Mike stepped back like he was slapped. His pointy eyebrows quirked down and a flash of remorse went across his face. “Sorry. Sorry. I thought we were doing, like, the witty banter thing.”

“Witty banter?” What the fuck? What the _fuck_? Eliot needed a thousand cigarettes.

“I misread it,” Mike said, ducking his head down and putting both hands up in the air. “I’m sorry. I thought you were interested. But I get that you’re not and I will let this go.”

Eliot closed his eyes and brought his hand to his head. It ached, tense and dull. “Okay. Good.”

Mike clapped his hands and looked back and forth. “So I can get a portal set up for you, if you’d like.”

“Well, I—uh—wait, what?” Eliot threw his cigarette on the ground and stubbed it out. He didn’t have the energy to send it to the Island of Used Filters at the moment. “I wasn’t planning on going home yet.”

Mike smiled but it looked and sounded more like a wince. “Might be kind of awkward now though, right?”

Eliot stood still and ran his tongue over his teeth. He grimaced, cold. “Are you kicking me out of your party?”

“I think it would be for the best if you found somewhere else to spend the evening,” Mike said crossing his arms. “I know you don’t get it, but this is actually a big disappointment for me. So seeing you here would be—”

“Yup,” Eliot popped the consonant. He adjusted his jacket and cracked his neck. “No, I fucking got it, Mike. No need to do me any favors, I can find my own way.”

“I like you, Eliot,” Mike said, his voice quiet. He couldn’t bring himself to give a shit. “So I’m sorry. But I think this is for the best.”

Eliot closed his eyes for no more than three seconds. 

In that moment, he let him feel all the inadequacy, all the rage, and all the worthlessness he knew he held within him. Some people contained multitudes. Eliot contained nothing. But then he opened them and willed it all away. He was so much more capable than any of this bullshit.

“It always is, Mike,” he said, with a tiny salute. “Have a good fucking life. Hope you lose to an avowed communist, in any race you may run.”

Mike laughed. It sounded a little wet. “Wow. Okay. If that’s how you want to leave it, that’s your choice.”

It certainly was his choice. It wasn’t quite how he wanted to leave it though.

“Oh, and by the fucking way?” Eliot spun around on his heel and held his head high. “You’re not Frankenstein. You’re Frankenstein’s _monster_. Good night and thank you.”

Mike chuckled and stuck his green hands back in his pockets. He gazed off into the distance, looking at once like a pastoral painting and a complete buffoon. 

“Mature, Eliot.”

He lit a cigarette and held his middle finger high in the air, walking away. “What can I say? First star to the right and straight on ‘til morning. 

“Eliot—“

"Go fuck yourself.”

* * *

_SMS with “_ ** _Q (cute face w long hair + flannel)_ ** _”  
_ _11/1/16, 12:04 AM_

hey can you open a portal for me  
without your usual barrage of questions  
please

quentin  
answer your phone

oh my god  
answer your phone

live a little  
break a rule  
answer your phone

seriously?  
goddammit q

* * *

Two hours later—with no fucking thanks to goddamn anyone—Eliot stumbled through the Cottage front door. World weary but alive.

He slammed it shut and pressed his back against the cool wood. He panted, rocking his head backwards. He stood there for a few minutes, steadying his breathing and gathering his bearings. 

It was already two in the morning, but he assumed he would come back to a dim and quiet house. The Halloween parties usually lasted full-blown until at least four. He thought at most he’d pass Quentin asleep in the reading nook. He couldd slip past and not have to deal with his judgy eyes until at least the true morning. Lights low, no creatures stirring, easy to slink off to bed. He needed the rest.

But that… was not exactly the case.

Every single light in the house was on. There were several books strewn around and Chinese takeout containers rested on both the coffee and dining room tables. There was an old-timey projector playing Charlie Chaplin movies in one corner and an elaborate fort built over one of the couches. It looked like the Iron Throne, if the Iron Throne were made of fleece blankets and throw pillows. Playing cards were swirling and jumping through the air to a melodious rhythm. Specifically, blasting-loud Taylor Swift. It was the pious hymn and victory chant of the Thinks He’s Home Alone-r. And sure enough, when Eliot cocked his ear just so, he heard warbling from the kitchen. It was the telltale sound of an off-key nerd, wide awake and joyful.

Moving toward the terrible singing with a chuckle, Eliot opened his mouth and held up his finger. He was preemptive as he rotated through a series of potential quips, certain to startle and shame. Fucking awful as the night had turned out, at least he would have that. Catching Quentin red-handed, doing all the shit everyone knew he did. Poetic justice la creme. 

When he actually arrived at the kitchen though, his plans disintegrated into dust. His hand fell against his side, heavy.

He knew he should burst the bubble with a biting comment. He knew he should have relished it. But all his wit curled itself into a ball, right in the center of his chest. In that moment, he could barely move, let alone speak.

“‘_Cause the players gonna play, play, play, play, play,_” Quentin half-sang with a cracking voice. His hair flew around as he banged his head up and down, like he was in a mosh pit instead of listening to a pop princess. “_And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate—_”

He drummed along the counter, twisting his feet along the linoleum and smiling as the tea kettle announced itself with a squeal. He jumped up and down as he levitated a mug over to the stove, using his own rarely seen telekinetic abilities. He flipped off the gas with a surprising amount of panache. The music kept playing as Quentin popped his hips back and forth, pouring the hot water over a tea bag. 

Eliot leaned his head against the wooden frame, still unable to take his eyes off Q. His heart was tight in his chest. He wondered what it would take for him to always be like this. 

“I’m lightning on my feet,” Quentin spoke-sang out, holding his mug in one hand. He slid forward, like Tom Cruise in _Risky Business_, before spinning around. “And that’s what they don’t—oh, _fuck_.”

He staggered backwards, his eyes wide on Eliot. He spilled a shock of his boiled water on his foot. He jumped with a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, as it hit his bare skin. Every muscle in Quentins’ body tensed and hunched. Eliot pushed the disappointment down, down, all the way fucking down.

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin said, heaving with his hand on his heart. “Wear a bell.”

“Sick beat,” Eliot smirked.

“Yeah, well,” Quentin crossed his arms and darted his eyes around the kitchen. He clapped the music off and Eliot ignored the pained thud in his chest. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too.”

Q met his eyes again and he frowned at Eliot’s terse and annoyed tone. “Just didn’t expect you back. Figured you’d end up staying in the city.”

He shook his head, eyes flying open in the motion. “Yeah. I know. Sorry. Tried texting you, actually. Needed a portal.”

Quentin looked like he was going to argue about the texting rule, but instead sighed and wiped down his pant leg with a kitchen towel. “Why did you need a portal?”

“Just did,” Eliot said, stretching his arms out. He chuckled, though it didn’t sound particularly good-humored. “Weird night.”

Quentin furrowed his brow and nodded once. His mouth was in a thin line and he cleared his throat, turning back to the burners behind him.

“Do you want tea?” He asked, indicating the kettle. His voice was quiet and gentle. Eliot smiled. He never wanted tea. But it was a sweet offer.

“Sure. But you could pour some whiskey in the hot water instead?” He called over a mug for himself and wagged it at Quentin. He nodded, so Eliot pushed his luck. “With a touch of honey. Lemon juice. Cinnamon stick. Oh, and a quarter teaspoon of vanilla extract but—”

“So you want a hot toddy,” Quentin sighed, barely smiling. “Make it yourself.”

“You offered.”

“I offered tea.”

But despite his bluster, Quentin was already unscrewing the red lid off the Maker’s Mark. Eliot shimmied his shoulders at him, quite pleased.

“So you look, um—“ Quentin started to say with a swallow, eyeing his costume. Eliot lifted his mouth into a lascivious half-grin. He looked good. It was okay, Q. “What—what are you supposed to be, anyway?”

“Margo and I go as the same thing every year,” he said, resting his palms backwards against the counter. “Hot.”

Quentin groaned and rolled his eyes, but smiled like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah, okay. I actually remember that now. Last year is still kind of hazy.”

Eliot’s own smile faltered. 

For the Brakebills’ 2015 Halloween Physical Kids Spooktacular (Todd named it, it stuck, Eliot didn’t want to talk about it), Quentin wore his old sad little suit and had magically grown a mustache. He claimed he was "Quentin’s Evil Twin." It had been equal parts groan inducing and cute, like most things he did. Though he almost looked cool compared to Julia’s Virginia Woolf costume that—yes—included a wolf mask and a “Virginia is for Lovers” crop top. She was the worst.

That all was fine.

But it had also been the night Quentin started “dating” Halitosis Sam. He had proclaimed Q’s low effort costume the funniest thing he’d ever seen and chased after him all night. He had hearts in his eyes, full Pepe LePew style. Emphasis _pee-ew_. 

Eliot had thought it was funny at first, worth at least teasing his new friend about. He never once registered Halitosis as any kind of threat, in all his jittery short stature and wiry buck-toothedness. That is, until he had gone looking for Quentin with a fresh drink in his hand. He stumbled on the two of them making out in a corner, with Quentin’s hands gripping tight in Halitosis’s wavy brown hair. And that had been—

Eliot’s eyebrows and jaw twitched at the same time.

It was a sour memory, much like the other man’s eponymous breath. Not only because Eliot had felt like his rib cage was punched and then vacuumed out of his chest. But also because it was the direct prelude to the worst and only real fight they had ever gotten into. The one where Eliot learned exactly how much Quentin hated the rhetorical question: “Oh, sweet Little Q, who among us isn’t a touch bicurious?”

Which was, for the record: A fucking _lot_.

It was a shitty thing to say. Quentin wasn’t wrong. But Eliot was stubborn and a master condescender, and things... escalated. It didn’t help that Margo interjected with, “Ooh, kitten’s got claws” and “Woof, _woof_, li’l pup” throughout the proceedings. It was all kind of a mess.

(Though after Quentin had yelled a final _Fuck you, Eliot _and slammed his door, Margo turned to him. She clucked her tongue and said, “You know what? I changed my mind. I like him.”)

It all settled anticlimactically. The next day, Quentin had stormed downstairs and threw himself next to Eliot on the couch. He called him an asshole and said he was “a bisexual man”, and that Eliot “needed to fucking accept that.” And so, Eliot did. He did.

Fuck, the only reason he had even pushed back at all was because—

Because it complicated things. For him.

Quentin’s attraction to men made it harder for Eliot to see him as nothing but a guilty pleasure fantasy. So even though he kind of hated himself every time he thought that it would have been easier if Q was straight, it was true. It would have been easier. And he still thought it, every day.

Like he realized he’d poked a sore spot, Quentin took a long audible breath of his own and blew his hair out of his face. It broke Eliot out of his reverie and he projected cool ease. Quentin smiled and got to quick work on the toddy.

“Where’s the cavalcade?” Q asked as he reached to grab a lemon, slicing it in half. He cut a single round, as a garnish, because he’d learned that giving Eliot a drink without an attractive garnish never went well. “Bringing the party back here?”

“Not exactly,” Eliot said with a sigh. “Kind of a fucked up night. Shit with Mike went sideways.”

“How do you feel about the phrase _I told you so_?” Quentin juiced the lemon into Eliot’s mug, before pouring the whiskey. “Positive? Neutral?”

“Yes, well. You were right,” Eliot said, gripping the counter with a sigh. He averted his eyes away from Quentin, who stopped his movements to stare at Eliot.

“Shit,” Quentin folded his eyebrows down. “Okay, I don’t think you’ve ever actually said that before.” 

He snorted, catching Quentin’s eyes again. “Sometimes lightning strikes.”

“What the fuck happened?”

“It appears Mike isn’t exactly—” Eliot clicked his teeth together. “He made a pass at me.”

“Oh,” Quentin shrugged. He turned back to his work. “Yeah, sure. I can see that.”

“Seriously?” Eliot’s mouth popped open and he laughed. “What?”

Quentin shrugged again, firmer. He cut another lemon round. “He’s always been, like, obsessed with you. Which I know people tend to be but it was—-more, I guess. Didn’t know for sure, but I had my suspicions.”

“And you never thought to mention it because—?” 

“Right. Because you would’ve been like,” Quentin pulled himself up straight and sniffed haughtily. “_Why, yes, my dashing Q, your celebrated social awareness is, like, utterly splendid and shit.”_

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek. Hard. 

“Is that—“ He cleared his throat, glee bubbling up and voice a whisper. “Is that what I sound like in your head?”

Quentin blushed all the way down his neck. “I’m not good at impressions.“

“Now, why would you say that? You’re, like, a most _perspicacious parodist_, dearheart.”

He glared. “But you wouldn’t have believed me is all I mean.”

Eliot widened his smile. But then took pity on him and changed the subject back to the matter at hand.

“Well, you should have at least tried to tell me,” he said, keeping a watchful eye as Quentin stirred the bourbon into the water. “Especially since my stubborn ass actually did want to fuck him. Ship’s sailed now though.”

“Well, uh, you’ll get the next one,” Q said, attention on slicing the rest of the lemon. His voice didn’t have much inflection. “You always do.”

Eliot passed over that bitchy little implication with a sigh. He scrubbed his hands down his face. “Not sure how I, of all people, missed it.”

“Eh. Happens. Poor Alice though,” Quentin said, topping off Eliot’s drink with his requested cinnamon stick and the lemon round. He handed it to Eliot, twisting the mug so he could take it by the handle. “Careful, that’s hot.”

“Thanks, Q,” Eliot smiled over the rim as he took a sip. It was bitter and the proportions were off, but he didn’t care one bit. “Tastes great.”

“Shit,” Quentin reached toward the drink, his fingers brushing against the back of Eliot’s hand. “I forgot the honey.”

He laughed, stepping away from his touch. “I’ll add it. I appreciate the unnecessary effort as it is.”

Quentin gave him a quick, unreadable look before turning to his own tea. He blew into the mug and the tag fluttered against the white ceramic.

“But like, why has the ship sailed?” Quentin asked, leaning back against the counter. His hair fell like a curtain over his eyes. “Are you that loyal to Alice now?”

“Yes and no,” Eliot said, tutting honey into his drink. He took a delicate sip and deemed the concoction serviceable. “It sailed for me. He told me to leave his party after I said no thank you to his dick offering.”

Quentin snorted. “What a baby.”

“Right? Took his balls and went home,” Eliot said, amused with himself. But then he took a longer gulp of the toddy and it burned down his throat. “I don’t know. He said all this shit about how I didn’t used to be _discreet_ enough for his political goals. I assume he meant about my preference for dick and, uh, I guess _flamboyance_, which is—yeah.”

Quentin’s eyes flashed up and his lips tightened as he crossed his arms. His foot tapped.

“He also said that I’m the _fun_ guy that he could take a _risk_ on and—“ Eliot closed his eyes and swallowed “—and he framed it like a compliment, but I—I don’t know—“

“He’s a total shitbag,” Quentin said, the words slashing through the air, vicious. Eliot smiled, rueful and touched.

“Something like that,” he sighed, opening his eyes and jerking his mouth into something unaffected. “The point is, I’m no one’s dirty secret. Those days are behind me. Been there, fucked the professor. Not worth the hassle.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, looking down into his mug. “Besides, I mean, Jesus, anyone with you should be proud as fuck. He’s a dickhead. Good riddance.”

Eliot’s heart caught in his throat and he couldn’t feel his hands. Bratty and sullen and fucking goddamn moody as he was, Quentin could also be—he could be so—

Kind. So kind. In a way Eliot had never been in his entire life. It always stunned him.

“Well, one thing we can agree on is that I am indeed magnificent,” Eliot managed to get out, with a smirk. Or at least, he hoped it was a smirk. Whatever it was, Quentin wasn’t fazed by it. He pushed his hair back and shrugged, smiling down at his crossed arms.

“Your magnificence aside, he’s an asshole,” he said, simple. “That’s all.”

Eliot smiled at him, wide and closed-lipped. But genuine. “Thanks, Q.”

The pressure in the air increased, like a heavy invisible weight spanned between them. Quentin's eyes crinkled for a second as he took a long look at Eliot, eyes expressive and obscure at once. He took one step forward. 

“Hey. Um, Eliot. Hey.”

Eliot took a sip of his drink and cocked a brow. “Hey?”

Quentin stared down, mouth pulled in lines. He took a deep breath. “Um. So. Uh, maybe this is weird timing, but there was something I wanted to—“

The soft _whoosh_ and white flash of a closing portal interrupted him. They both snapped their heads over to the door frame. A tiny blonde vision in Pink Lady gear ticked her way in on sensible Mary Janes.

“Eliot!” She said, hand on her heart. “There you are. Hello, Quentin.”

“Hey Alice,” Q said, waving his tea mug in the air in greeting. His voice sounded resigned and relieved at once. She looked him up and down, nodded, and returned her gaze to Eliot.

“Mike told Margo that you left,” Alice said, wrinkling her facial features. “She said not to worry about it, but it didn’t seem like you to disappear. I’m glad to see you’re okay.”

“You came to look for me?” Eliot asked, surprised. Alice nodded, big-eyed and determined.

“Of course,” she said, crossing her arms. “I was worried. You’re my friend and you—_disappeared_ out of nowhere. I did a special locator spell with my prism. It works like a one-way mirror, so I was able to see you walking toward the Cottage.”

Quentin snorted and spoke softly. “Yeah, uh. That coulda been awkward for you, Alice.”

Eliot shot him a glare. It was true that Alice was slightly naive. But there was no reason not to gently _neglect_ to mention that—yes—he could have been fucking someone. It didn’t happen so it didn’t matter. So instead, Eliot gave her a warm look and touched her arm. 

“You’re a sweetheart. But you should have stayed and continued your fun. I’m a big boy.” 

Alice jutted her chin upward toward him, resolute. “Leave no man behind.” 

There it was. 

Eliot stared down at her, a lump in his throat. He took one step forward and tilted his head at her. 

She was blinking brightly under her absurd 1950s glasses. She probably thought it was a sweeter and kinder time, bless her little heart and not in the Southern way. Her lips quivered in unwavering loyalty, far more than he deserved from anyone, least of all someone who barely knew him. And far more than from someone who trusted him not to make out with Mike after a year stuck in a frozen wasteland with a drunk psychopath.

It was all on him.

He glanced back at Quentin, but he had decided to busy himself in the intricacies of his tea mug like a good awkward boy. 

“Q, was there something you needed?” He asked, half-hoping for an excuse and half actually curious. But Quentin shook his head, hair flying. He laughed.

“Uh, no. Definitely not. Not important.”

Eliot smiled to himself for a second before sighing, true and deep. Great. No way to put off the inevitable any longer.

“Hey Alice,” Eliot said, softly. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Let’s go to the fireplace and chat, okay?”

* * *

Eliot knew to expect the tears. 

He even knew to expect the ones flowing down and the way her hands wiped at them, haphazard and stumbling. The sheen in her eyes, as more and more came in waves. He sighed, clenching his jaw as Alice sniffed and sputtered, shaking with wet, painted cheeks. He knew it was coming. He knew it.

But it didn’t make it easier, as he sat there, mortified. They sat in the two leather chairs and the fire roared orange and gold, the only light in the room. Eliot closed his eyes and ran his tongue over his lips, pouring more wine for both of them. They were going to need it.

“Okay,” Eliot said, frowning and shifting. He ran his fingers through his curls, pinky catching. “But like—it’s not _that_ funny.”

Alice burst into another cackle, slapping her knee. She howled, teeth shining in the firelight. Her wine glass vibrated in her hand, the liquid jumping around though it were in an earthquake.

“No, it is,” Alice said, eyes shining and amusement in every syllable. “You did say you’d be bad at this, but my god.”

“To be fair,” Eliot said with a finger in the air, “his last public relationship was with a woman. He never gave me any sign that he was—”

She fell into giggles again and shook her face in her hands. “God, it makes so much more sense now. Do you know what our date at the library was like?”

Eliot frowned. “No, we never got to talk about that.”

“It was terrible!” Alice said, laughing harder and harder. “We did my homework! The whole time! He kept asking if you’d want to join us!”

“He thought I’d go to the library?” Eliot felt his own smile break through. “On a Saturday? Boy was barking up so many wrong trees.”

“The only ‘move’ he made was kissing my hand at the end of the day,” she said, curling into the chair and wrapping her legs around her wine stem. She smiled, all teeth. “It was sweet but—”

“Not heterosexual?” Eliot said, a touch self-deprecating. Alice slapped her hand over her mouth as another laugh squeaked out.

“No. Actually, um, I was starting to think he was really religious or something?” Alice said, her head bobbing as she chuckled. “Like he couldn’t kiss me because his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ was watching?”

Eliot bit into his knuckles, smiling. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, rough and staccato over his own laughter. “I can’t believe I missed it. I have no excuse. I was probably drunk. Actually, you know what? That’s my excuse. I’m sorry for being so drunk.”

He should get monogrammed stationery with that printed on it.

But Alice gave him a tiny look, almost shy behind her glasses. She took a languid sip of wine and raised her brows.

“It doesn’t surprise me at all that you missed it,” she said, scrunching her nose up over her glass, mouth obscured by the rich red liquid. “You make a habit of assuming people are one thing or another. It’s quite, ah, _heteronormative_ of you.”

Eliot rolled his lip between his teeth and jerked his head. He considered what she was saying but then laughed.

“Not sure what you’re talking about. I think all my friends are somewhere along the line of the sexuality spectrum.” He paused and bobbed his head back and forth. “Well, except for you.”

She glared at him.

… Oh. 

Shit.

“Oh, shit,” he said aloud, scooting towards her. “Shit. But you said—you said you date men.”

Alice cocked her head. “I believe my precise drunken words were that I _mostly_ date men.”

Shit. Yeah. That was right. Shit.

“I’m—an asshole,” Eliot said, raising his eyebrows. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Nothing terrifies my horrible mother more than me ending up in a monogamous heterosexual marriage,” Alice said. She smiled down into her wine. “But for better or worse, I’m definitely not straight.”

“I’m such a dick,” Eliot laughed, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his palms.

Alice glinted her bright blue eyes up at him. She was amused. “Magicians are generally much more open to broader sexual mores. My interest in women is tame compared to my parents’ polyamorous creature orgies.”

“Ah, yes,” Eliot chuckled, half-joking. “The mythic pansexual paradise.”

“I’d hardly call it that,” she said, with a sudden bitter laugh. “No matter what, your identity can fuck you up. More open societal spaces or not.”

He’d never heard her say _fuck_ before. He liked it in her mouth. 

“My parents had me start working with a sex therapist when I was thirteen,” Alice continued, shuddering. “It was—anyway, I was already an awkward kid but that was when I buttoned up. Figured it would be the best way to stick it to them.”

Eliot shook his head. “Naturally.”

“They aren’t the best people,” Alice sighed. “I suppose my father tries, in his own way. But they both wanted me to be something bolder, something less rigid. So that’s why I started dating sweet boys, one at a time. You know, awkward fumbling at parties and study dates until it petered out. Closed my eyes and thought of Stephanie, angry about how I was _limiting myself_. Worked.”

“So hetero fuck buddies have been your—rebellion?” Eliot blinked and then let out a slow stream of whistling air. “Fascinating.”

“Not all of them,” Alice conceded, curling her knees up with a tiny smile. “But the day I come home with a thousand year old vampire on one arm, a sexy redhead on the other, and a Lamia rubbing their mouth into my cleavage? That's when Stephanie Quinn would finally declare she had a daughter.”

Eliot fell over laughing. Alice giggled into her hands, eyes alight with pleasure.

“That was funny,” he said, holding out his wine glass toward her. Game recognize game, as Bambi would say. “Cheers, doll.”

Alice’s face flickered in the firelight. Her eyes cast downward and she frowned, watery and wavering. She put her glass on the floor, not toasting him. Eliot was overwhelmed with the feeling he did something wrong.

“My brother used to call me that,” she said, laughing like it pained her. “Allie Doll. I hated it. I always told him I wasn’t an inanimate object. But now—now I’d give anything to—“

Eliot closed his eyes, and he imagined the flames caressing every inch of his skin. The warmth almost burned. They were so close. They were intoxicating. He wasn’t the best at grief. He could recognize it anywhere. That was as far as his skill on the subject matter went.

“I’ve been lonely, Eliot,” Alice said, placing her soft and small hands in her lap. She stared into the fire, the flames reflecting in the ice blue. “I’m so lonely. All the time. Even before South. Sometimes I can’t breathe.” 

_Me too. It’s killing me. How the fuck do we get out of bed?_

That’s what he wanted to say.

Instead, he said: “Oh. I—uh—oh.”

“And I’m so tired of people insisting that I’m any less smart or competent if I want to find love in my life,” Alice said, grabbing her wine glass and chugging it. The fire was within her now. “That I can’t be a powerful woman and also have a partner. As though I’m falling into a conventional trap instead of thinking for myself. It’s sexist garbage.”

Eliot couldn’t help himself. “I mean, it is conventional. By definition. But I think I understand your point.”

She frowned. “Is it so bad that I want it? Conventional or not?”

Eliot sighed. “I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that whatever you’re dealing with about your brother might be fueling all this?”

Her face shuttered. “That’s none of your business.”

So, yes. But also, fair enough.

“I don’t like airing my shit either,” Eliot said, stretching his legs long and out toward the brick of the fireplace. It glowed golden red and shadows told endless tales on the jagged ridges. “But you’ve reaffirmed your conviction and pointedly mentioned that you’re interested in women. Is there—are you interested in someone specific, Alice?”

He didn’t want to hear the answer. But he also needed to hear the answer.

“Kady Orloff-Diaz and I have been getting along well,” Alice said with a blush and there it fucking was. He had to give him credit—Q was picking up more social cues than usual. Or maybe Eliot had lost his touch. Either way, it was time.

He sipped on his wine and stared into the fire.

“What do you know about her?” He asked, keeping his voice even. Alice adjusted her glasses.

“She told me that she had a tough year last year,” she said and Eliot wanted to laugh. Kady’s year was fucking fine. “She also told me that you hate her.”

“I wouldn’t say hate.” Wasn’t strong enough. Alice didn’t need to know that though. “I don’t trust her, after everything that happened. Did she tell you what happened?”

“No,” Alice said, the word dropping low from her lips. It stretched slow and into a whisper. “She said it was in the past.”

Eliot rolled his ankles and stretched the balls of his feet out and in. Out and in. Out and in. He spoke with exact precision. He was a surgeon. He was an Impressionist. He was going to land the crashing plane with only one casualty.

“Last year, she was stealing materials from the school and passing them onto the leader of a Hedge Witch coven,” he said, starting slow. “From what I understand, the woman was someone who had been kicked out of Brakebills a few years prior and was on a scorched-earth campaign.”

Alice frowned deeper. “Oh. Why did Kady—?

“Your guess is as good as anyone’s. _For kicks_ seems to be the prevailing theory.”

“That doesn’t sound like Kady,” Alice said with a wrinkle on her nose. “She’s very—she’s conscientious, once you get to know her.”

Eliot laughed, hollow. Get to know Kady. Fucking adorable.

“Well, Miss Conscientious even took sentient books from our library. Separated from their mates, from their home bases, from the climate control they needed. Tantamount to torture.”

Alice was a living and breathing PETA campaign, except that she liked bacon with her waffles. She and Margo had gotten into it over the cruelty of foie gras production one time. Eliot needed to get her where it hurt, early on. He didn’t need to tell her everything—wasn’t going to tell her everything. But she needed to get the picture.

“Wow. Okay. Wow,” Alice swallowed. She shook her head, like she was working through a logic puzzle. “But wouldn’t all that be grounds for expulsion?”

Eliot dipped his head back, exposing his long throat. “You’d think. But that wasn’t even the worst of it.”

As he continued the story, he made sure to keep his tone light and disaffected. He pulled out his flask and took a lingering sip. 

“She’d been up to her villainous shit all year, but she didn’t actually slip up until closer to the end of last semester. She was at the Cottage and she had all these goddamn books hidden away under some shitty cache spell. No finesse, just desperation.”

Alice was brimming to interject, but when Eliot wanted to, he could command any floor. She wouldn’t dare interrupt him.

“Anyway, we tried to stop her and she tried to claim she was _returning_ them, which was bullshit,” Eliot spat out, with a grit of his teeth. “And then she—lost her shit and her goddamn mind, all at once.”

“What do you mean?” Alice asked. She was tiny, like a little girl finding out Santa wasn’t real.

“She wanted to have her cake and eat it too. Learn magic, but fuck up the system in the process,” Eliot clenched his jaw and ground the hatred down into particles. “But you can’t serve two masters. Once she realized we were planning on turning her over to Fogg, she was Ms. Brakebills 2016. Going on and on about how being here gave her meaning, gave her focus and strength, all kinds of manipulative horseshit.”

Eliot ran his fingers along the edge of his glass and swallowed a bitter pill. “But uh—some people fell for it. Wouldn’t let us bind her up to take her to the dean. Physically stopped us.”

Echoes of _Why are you being so fucking stupid about this?_ rang in his ears. He drank.

“So that prolonged her presence in the house, which then—”

He closed his eyes. More for dramatic effect than an actual emotional response. He’d mostly numbed himself to this part with practice, but he needed it to land. He sighed and opened them again, peering at her with all the weight in the world.

Alice chewed on her lip and cocked her head. “What happened?”

“She let loose an energy surge,” Eliot said, rough and crackling like the fire. “It was the Hiroshima of Battle Magic inflections. The interior of the Cottage was destroyed, as bad as Cat 5 hurricane damage. It was a total fucking mess.”

Understatement of several millennia. But by the look of Alice’s wide and scandalized lashes fluttering all over the place, she had gotten the message. Her quickness on the uptake was a small blessing.

“I had no idea,” Alice said, still small and quiet. She wrung her hands together. “Was it voluntary?”

Eliot snorted, joyless smile stretching wide. “I don’t know. Personally, I think so. She was pissed. Different people have different theories though.”

“But why didn’t she get expelled?” Alice asked again. It was like her to be stuck on the result and not the journey.

Eliot slumped into the chair and airily waved his hand in the air. “From what I hear, Kady licked Fogg’s asshole into an inch of his life, splayed out over his desk like a starfish.”

Alice barked out a gasp. “She _what_?”

He pushed himself back up by his palms and cocked his head, smiling. He was so charmed by her.

“That was a joke, kitten,” he said, soft. She visibly relaxed. Remarkable. “I have no idea how she convinced Fogg to let her stay on, except that Brakebills is a fucked up place with inconsistent terms of service.”

“My goodness,” was all Alice said. She took a gulp of her wine, culling it. Eliot reached over and touched her knee.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” he said, gazing at her through his lashes. “But it would be wrong of me not to at least warn you. She’s dangerous. She’s fucking dangerous.”

Alice swallowed, her throat trembling. She took a sip of wine and didn’t say anything more. There wasn’t much to say. He understood. The quiet draped over them, still and velvety. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it had weight and thoughtfulness. It was pleasant.

That is, until a rustling and a brief crash broke through, behind them.

“Shit,” Quentin’s voice said and they both turned around, staring over the backs of their chairs. “Sorry, guys. I’m, uh, looking for a book? I thought it was in here but—it’s not. I must have misplaced it.”

“The Cottage is a mess, Quentin,” Alice said, the disappointed school marm. Deliciously, he went beet red.

“I know, sorry,” he said, scratching at his neck. “I was gonna—I’ll clean it up.”

“See that you do,” Eliot said, authoritative and narrowing his eyes. Quentin rolled his. He had no respect.

“Anyway, uh, sorry,” he said, arms up and shoulders scrunched to his ears. He shuffled in front of them and tripped over the rug. He shook his legs out one at a time and kept inching his way across the fireplace. “Shit. Sorry. I’m not here. Continue like I’m—like I’m not here.”

“We’re only drinking wine,” Alice said. But she also did not invite Q to join them. The omission wasn’t lost and he huffed a breath.

“Okay, um,” Quentin cleared his throat and saluted them. “Well, then. See you both. Later. See you both later and bye.”

“Bye, Quentin,” Eliot said, flat voiced. He received a brief glare for his efforts and then Q was gone, squirreling his way back to the main living room.

Alice’s eyes followed his bumbling across the top line of her black-and-rhinestone rimmed glasses.

“He’s odd,” she concluded, pouring herself more wine. She offered to Eliot and he happily accepted. But to her statement, he shrugged one shoulder up.

“Eh. He’s Q,” Eliot said. Then he smiled and shook his head. “So yes. Good eye.”

“You two are a bit of an odd couple,” Alice said, light. Eliot tensed.

“We’re not a couple.”

Alice cut a curious glance to him, with only her eyes. “I know. You’ve both made that clear. But how did you become friends?”

“He was the 2015 inductee into my Adopt-a-Nerd program.”

She laughed, “I actually believe that.”

“Margo started dating Julia about a year ago,” Eliot explained, more seriously. “Julia and Quentin are something of a package deal.”

Alice’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? He seems closer to you than her.”

“They’ve been best friends since they were kids,” Eliot said rather than agreeing that, well, yeah. He and Q went together more often than anyone these days. But that was a path no one wanted to follow, for too many reasons. His heart ached for Bambi.

Alice nodded, but pursed her lips. Her eyes cut back over at him, considering. Then she shrugged and took a deep gulp of wine, like she decided something. She tucked her legs under her giant skirt, surrounding her tiny torso like a fluffy petals.

“I know you’ve said you aren’t a couple. But—_is_ there anything between you two?” Alice asked, blunt as fuck. “Because it seems like there might be.”

Eliot schooled his face. He gazed regally into the fire, a sardonic and disbelieving twist to his lips. “What on earth do you mean?”

“You’re always together and you’re very affectionate with one another,” Alice said, pinning him down with her ice blue eyes. “There’s a certain way you look at each other too. I can’t quantify that aspect, but it’s there nonetheless. All that, combined with the fact that you’re both interested in men? It seems like a logical conclusion.”

Eliot shot up, surprised. “How did you know that Q—?”

“He referenced an ex-boyfriend. Seemed like he wanted me to know,” she said with a shrug. Eliot rolled his eyes. Halitosis was not an ex. 

Alice must have noticed a shift in his demeanor. “Look, if this is a painful subject—”

He laughed, light. He adjusted his necklaces, busying his hands. “No, darling. It's not a subject at all.”

“Really?” Alice asked, unconvinced. 

“To give you credit, you’re right on most accounts. Q and I are close friends and spend a lot of our free time together. We’re both tactile people,” Eliot said, throat dry but voice clear. He sighed and swirled his wine, grand. “Sure, yes, there’s overlap in who we find attractive. But your logic doesn’t see itself through because—it’s not actually about logic. We’re friends and that’s all. Nothing more, but also nothing less.”

Eliot wasn’t lying to her. Facts were facts were facts. Still, he was excellent at putting on a convincing show. She looked at him for a moment longer and then nodded.

“Okay,” Alice said. It was like that was that. “I believe you.”

It seemed like she did. Remarkable. So different from his Bambi. He rested his head against the soft green leather and smiled, watching the sparks float up to the ceiling. He made them dance. 

But it appeared the conversation wasn’t wrapped up quite yet. Alice was still staring off where Quentin had been, eyes thoughtful and eyebrows clenched together.

“He loves magic. I can tell that much. His excitement radiates off him,” she said, quiet and almost to herself. “I haven’t decided if it’s admirable or terribly stupid.”

“Admirable,” Eliot said, without hesitation. “Quentin can be naive, but he’s never—he’s not stupid. It helps to be around. At least, it helps me remember that it’s not all shitty.”

She nodded slowly. Unconvinced. She drank more of her wine and let out a soft, nasal laugh.

“He reminds me of Charlie. More awkward, less sparkling. But there’s still—he’s still like Charlie,” Alice said, lip trembling. Eliot tilted his head, coaxing her for more detail. “My brother.“

“I’m sorry, Alice.” He was. He wasn’t sure for what exactly. But he was sorry. But she shook her head, though she were dispelling any softness from her soul. She straightened her shoulders back.

“Everyone has their shit.”

Eliot swallowed. “Cheers to that.”

Their glasses clinked, half-hearted.

She sighed, leaning back. Her lips lifted into a playful smile, the air filling with a dusting of glitter from her eyes.

“So,” she said, curling her knees into her chest. “Any other gay men in your Rolodex you want to try to set me up with? Or I could go on several dates with a Catholic Priest in plainclothes, who thinks he’s converting me?”

“Leave the sass to the professionals,” Eliot said, wry smirk over his glass. She giggled again. “I may retire as a matchmaker. Best to quit while you’re ahead.”

“Quentin was right. Mike’s riddles were stupid,” Alice said, as though that was the real issue. He laughed.

“Sure.”

“But even though it was terrible, you’re the most fun person I’ve ever met in my life. So it was at least worth the experience,” Alice said, eyes shining. The way she said _fun _was so different than Mike had. He felt a strange warmth overtake his chest and he swallowed. 

She was lovely.

He also had an idea.

Eliot ran the edge of his thumb nail against his lip and leveled Alice with an intense gaze. “No more matchmaking. But I have a—crazy thought, let’s say. Bit more my natural style. If you’re game.”

Alice laughed and twisted in her seat, almost a dance. “Okay. Sure. I’m trying to be more game. What is it?”

Eliot leaned forward, pressing his palms into his thighs. He smiled and asked the question, even though he already knew the answer.

“Have you ever been to Ibiza?”

* * *

tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. For any deep divers: I made a reference to Mike being generally a good guy in a comment last chapter. For the record, he went way more asshole than I anticipated. *shrug*


	5. All Pleasure and Gratitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer time between posting! This a lengthy chapter that was—real talk—kinda like pulling teeth at times. Then I was also super sick for over a week AND I’ve been traveling for work, etc., etc., etc. Ay, ay, ay. 
> 
> And while I wish I could say that it’s going to get back to my usual posting schedule, it’s a busy time for me right now, like it seems to be for everyone. But the rest still shouldn’t take as long as this one did, I hope.
> 
> Quick content note too: TW for excessive alcohol and drug usage, combined with a certain amount of heavily implied sexual content. There’s no major tonal shift happening here, but I know firsthand that real life is often more complicated than the tropey narrative. As always, take care. <3

** _B_****_rakebills University & Cala Jondal, Ibiza, Spain, November 2016_ **

** _*_ **

**(Part Four of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: Bambi Wants Everyone to Know That Her ‘Nick and Nora’ Reference is From _The Thin Man_ Series, Not _Nick and Norah’s Infinite Playlist_)**

*****

**(Alternate Title: Eliot Wants Everyone to Know That He Would Totally Fuck Michael Cera)**

* * *

The Encanto Oculto Council of Elders required three things in a proper Regalo: Ingenuity, magical proficiency, and above all, _concupiscence. _Their word, not Eliot's. Obviously.

His first time, the Regalo had been a disappointment. As a newcomer, he wasn’t directly involved in the creation and the rube that led their cohort at the time went with a crass, insensitive version of boner pills. It caused quite the scandal, sparking deep offense among the Elders without either male or any genitalia. The only reason the Physical Kids were even allowed into the wards that year was because, on the spot and desperate, Eliot made a drink so perfect, Jesus wept. Hence, the birth of the Signature Cocktail. 

Wink.

Unfortunately, his second time, a certain amount of hubris caught up with him. He could admit now that his indisputable reign over Brakebills had gone to his head. Instead of treating the gift with the precious attention and detail it deserved, he was too clever. The Elders allowed them in because they understood the acidic irony in the working bag of dicks. But the disappointment in their eyes was clear. It was the first time in his life he felt compelled to better himself in the future.

And he did. Because _finally_, Eliot got it right for their third Encanto Oculto when they presented the Elders with…a Djinn. 

Like, an actual Djinn.

Who granted wishes. 

Unlimited wishes.

… Hello?

Anyway, it was perfect. It was a real fuckin’ _Regalo_.

Naturally, Eliot had needed to test out the Djinn first. For research purposes. So before giving him over to the Elders, he had updated his entire wardrobe. He also enjoyed some newfound masturbation techniques. He traveled to another world to swim in an ocean of nonaddictive champagne and opium. He received the answers to every exam for the rest of the year. And he totally—

“Yeah, uh, that all sounds unethical as shit. Remind me how it’s not just straight up slave labor?”

Mid-sentence, he paused and cut a glare over to Quentin, the rudest interrupter. 

To the casual observer, Q was the picture of concentration. His hair was in need of a trim, so the long strands slid against his notebook page as his pencil scratched furious. He was doing Nature homework, the worst of the homeworks. But a tiny smile peeked its way out, like he _trying _he was being a little shithead in response to Eliot’s very interesting and informative story. First time Encanto attendees should lap up every tiny bit of detail they could glean, so he was obviously far too spoiled on the fruits of Eliot’s previous kindness. So he blew smoke in a perfect arch over Bambi’s head to smack him right in the face.

The clear message did nothing to deter him. Quentin smirked wider, far too amused for his own good, and rested his chin on his knee. “But seriously, isn’t that literally the plot of _Aladdin_?”

“Don’t say shit like that in Ibiza,” Margo said, affronted. She punctuated her message by smacking his thigh with her sharp fingernails. Quentin rolled his eyes.

“I mean, for the record, you two were the ones who badgered me into even going in the first place. You have no room to complain about any of my shit,” he said. He closed his notebook with a sigh and stretching his arms up toward the ceiling. “Jules was the one opposition vote. Still is.”

But Margo puckered her lips and shook her head, blinking rapidly. “Huh? Us? Want _you_ to come to Encanto Oculto? ¿Qué? No me lo creo.”

Eliot cocked his head to the side. “That was a dream you had.”

“A wet dream.” Margo fluttered her lashes.

Quentin snorted. “You two should have a comedy revue in Vegas.”

“We’d be sold out every goddamn night,” Margo said, leaning back to snuggle onto Eliot’s lap and entwining their hands. With a contented sigh, he kissed the top of her head. She was right. They would be, and it could be wonderful.

Rubbing his chin along her hairline, he considered the logistics. Maybe they could drop out before graduation and skip the whole thesis nonsense altogether. Committed to the act and nothing else. Go full Gypsy Rose Lee, Vaudeville Supremes. Because, fuck, even the skeleton concept sounded worlds better than his current working title of _The effect of telekinetic inducement on magical and physical properties of the nervous system, via the application of Wolfsbane and ethanol to_—

Ugh. Goddamn. Eliot was so fucking bored. So Vegas it was. Decision made. 

How do you like them egg rolls, Dean Fogg?

“But my point, Quentin,” Bambi said, giving Eliot’s hand a quick tap to bring him back to earth, “is that while you should definitely not listen to my overbearing girlfriend—”

“Thank you. Jesus. She’s, like, so fucking overbearing sometimes,” Q moaned out.  His head fell back against the couch cushion and his legs splayed everywhere as if in catharsis. With a small snorting giggle, Margo stretched forward to fist bump him in solidarity. He returned it awkwardly, more like a brush of knuckles. It was an unnatural movement for him. He was cute.

Bambi settled against Eliot and tilted her head. “But Ibiza is the big leagues, kid. So my _point_ is that—“

“Her _point_ is that you’ll be _fine_, Q,” Eliot said, pinching Bambi’s arm hard. She elbowed backward into his gut in annoyance. He didn’t care. She was about to be a bitch. “Trust me, if Alice is going and will be fine, as I know she will be, then you'll be great.”

With that, he killed two birds with one swift sentence. He had officially told Quentin that Alice was coming and they could all move on. The end.

“Wait, _Alice_?” Q jolted upward, incredulous. He wasn’t sticking to the script. “As in Alice Quinn? What? Are—wait, are you serious?”

“Apparently,” Margo said, flat and unamused. He’d already been read the Riot Act twice from her.  She could be so unreasonable. “Inex-fucking-plicable.”

Quentin’s eyes blinked wide like a doll. “She’s going to have a terrible time, El.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “No, she’s going to have an amazing time because I will ensure she has an amazing time. That’s what I do, Q.”

“But why the fuck would you spend your last Brakebills Encanto worrying about that?” Margo’s head landed backwards against his chest with hard and purposeful force. “It’s going to take too much of your time and effort, sweetie.”

“I mean, yeah,” Quentin said with a frown. “That’s a valid question and point.”

“And we can’t yell at her to get in line like we can with this dummy,” Margo said, jutting her thumb toward Q. “She’ll _cry_. I’ve actually matured past making girls cry for sport, El.”

“Also fair,” Quentin agreed. But then he squinted and looked at Margo. “Though the last part is dubious. What about Lilah last week?”

“That cunt got what was coming to her,” Bambi waved her hand and scoffed. She refocused, fiery and firm. “But Alice is going to drag everyone down. So _blah_.”

“Uh, that’s not my concern,” Quentin said quickly. Margo rolled her eyes, stretching her hand up to look at her nail polish. “But I do think she doesn’t know what she’s getting into. She couldn’t, if she agreed to go.”

Eliot took a deep breath. He willed the defensive tension in his chest away. “You two are being a touch over-the-top in your concern.”

“But what’s there for her?” Q asked, pushing the point, as he did. “The binge drinking? The excessive drug use? The goddamn orgies?”

“To be fair, are _you_ going to join the orgies, Q?” Margo asked, a laughing challenge. Quentin pulled an undeterred face.

“No, but I’m a true neutral so I don’t care about being around it,” he said, tapping his pencil against his knee. “But Alice? Alice is as _lawful good_ as I’ve ever seen and—“

“Don’t. Say. Shit. Like. That. In. Ibiza.” Margo snapped her eyes shut and pointed at her head. “Migraine. Fuckin’ migraine, Coldwater.”

“Leave him alone, Bambi,” Eliot murmured into her hair. She flipped her head to glare at him and he kissed the tip of her nose.

“He’s our guest,” she said, not fucking around. “His inadequacies reflect on us.”

“No, he’s _my_ guest. Your lustrous reputation will remain intact,” Eliot promised. He slipped his free hand through her hair, soothing and firm at once. He wasn’t fucking around either. “I’ll take the heat if it comes to that.”

Quentin slumped deeper into the couch cushions, almost disappearing. “Your confidence is overwhelming.”

“Again, you’ll be fine. I’m not worried,” Eliot said, stretching to ash his cigarette on the coffee table. He let it rest, plumes of smoke rising all around them. “There’s something for everyone. The festival bends to your desires. But you know Bambi here gets off on being bossy as shit.”

“I make it look good,” Margo said with a wide smile, ever unrepentant and resplendent. He loved her so. With a low laugh, Eliot bit at her cheek, a soft scrape of his teeth against the corner of her mouth. She giggled and batted him away.

When he glanced back up, Quentin was looking at them, softer than before. His big eyes glinted in warm amber light of the Cottage and his frown was gentle, like he was lost in thought. Eliot caught his eyes and tilted his head, questioning the expression. But Q just huffed a laugh and smiled. He looked down at his hands, and Eliot’s heart did a pathetic little flip in his chest.

But then Quentin scratched the space between his brows and lifted up his discerning gaze once again. “Seriously, though, are you sure bringing Alice is a good idea?

Hm.

“I’m not chaining her up, Q,” Eliot said, the first pricks of annoyance forming in his gut. But then he smiled, upbeat and assured. “Unless she requests it, of course. Daddy’s more than happy to indulge.”

With a small _Pfft_ sound, Quentin rolled his eyes again. “Jesus Christ.”

Eliot winked and licked his lips, but he still hoped his real meaning resonated. Alice was strong, sensible, and scary competent. Just because she was a bit green when it came to partying didn’t mean she needed someone to white knight her. Least of all Quentin, who wasn’t exactly old hat himself at doing lines of cocaine off a pixie’s dick himself. If Q was so certain he could handle Encanto Oculto, then he should extend the same courtesy to Alice.

So Eliot stated it simply, to drive the message home: “She’s an adult capable of her own decision making.”

“I know that,” Quentin said, in a tone that was on the placating side. He wasn’t fond of it. “But I’m not convinced you always recognize the power of your own… persuasiveness, let’s say.”

Considering the notion, Eliot rested one arm behind his head as Bambi purred into his lap. He smiled beatific at his conclusion. “I could be a cult leader.”

“Well, okay, maybe you do,” Quentin said, flat. He pulled his legs under his ass, sitting cross-legged. “But I’m serious, El. I mean, come on—“

The anger hit all at once.

What Alice did was none of Quentin's business. It wasn’t anyone’s business. If she wanted to follow Eliot to the ends of the world, if she wanted to drink his Kool-Aid, if she wanted to murder Gerald Ford for his interest? That would be her prerogative. She was a grown woman who had complete and full knowledge of what she was getting into. More or less. Enough.

Bitter words chipped at his teeth, fighting for release.

Quentin had no problem always presuming Eliot had reckless and selfish intentions. It was like it never occurred to him that maybe Eliot knew things about Alice that Quentin didn’t. That he had made a decision not from his own dumb party boy desires, but because he thought it would be something that could be fun or even good for her. That he was being careful and considerate. God, that he was _trying_.

“Can’t you just fucking trust me for once?” Eliot let out a strangled breath as the words fell out, rough and harsh. “Jesus Christ, Quentin.”

After a long and uncomfortable beat of silence, Q’s eyes shot wide open and he curled inward like a kicked puppy. He hugged his knees to his chest and his hair fell over his eyes.

Shit. 

“Trust you for _once_? El. I—” Quentin started to say, shaking his head. But he cut himself off and looked down. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Of course. Sorry.”

Shit.

Eliot licked his lips and bit at a piece of dry skin, tugging at it with his teeth. It ripped from the edge and the tiny wound pulsed and stung. He took a quick glance at Quentin, whose face was still dark and sad, but he had picked up his book again, now a picture of false concentration. Shit.

It was fine. It would blow over. All he had to do was say something clever and charming to smooth over the tension. But before he could, Bambi’s leg stretched out and kicked Quentin’s hand.

“Ow, Margo,” he said, voice tiny. She kicked him again until he looked up, moody and morose. “What?”

“Come here,” she said, patting at her stomach and lap. He rolled his eyes and his jaw tensed. He flipped a page.

“No. I’m working.”

“Come here,” Bambi insisted, patting all the harder. She hooked her foot into the crook of his elbow and pulled with her strong ankle. “Come _here_.”

He sighed and tried to resist her, a vain effort. “I need to get this done.”

“But I wanna play with your hair,” Bambi whined, finally leaning forward to pull him over with her hands. With performative reluctance, he sighed and rolled into her, resting his head in her lap.

The three of them were layered on top of each other, like nesting dolls. Eliot smiled down at the tops of their heads, kissing Margo’s once before leaning back into the coziest corner of the couch, chest quelling. Meanwhile, Margo’s hands dipped in and out of Quentin’s layered hair, twining the ends around her fingers like a cat’s cradle.

“You must condition a lot,” she said idly. Eliot’s fingers twitched at his side and he dug into Margo’s arm. He watched as Q’s lashes fluttered closed when Bambi started massaging his scalp. He cuddled fully into her and Margo let herself smile. It was almost a perfect moment, except that Eliot’s lower lip still tasted like blood.

“Are you braiding my hair?” Quentin looked up at Margo from under his folded and suspicious brow. Eliot remained silent, watching the two of them from above, resting the crook of his arm over his head.

“No,” Bambi lied, tugging several strands into a rather elaborate French twist. He looked so pretty. Eliot’s fingers ached, but he held back in a Herculean effort.

“So El, um, what’s the Regalo this year?” Quentin asked, angling his chin over and up so he could meet his eyes without leaving his coveted place on Margo’s lap. There was no hint of wet, cold kitten anywhere. “How are you going to do better than a Djinn?

It always blew over.

“They aren’t looking for something bigger every year,” Eliot said, stretching his neck back and forth. “It’s like a song. Dips and crescendos.”

“Which means you’re doing—what, exactly?” Quentin smirked, having caught onto the fact that he was stalling. 

Eliot reached his arm down and flicked at his flannel covered shoulder. Then he let his arm rest there, hand caught between the couch cushion and Q’s forearm. The warmth of his soft shirt fabric tickled his knuckles.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said, all confidence. “I work best under pressure.”

“Do you wanna, like, brainstorm?” Quentin asked, all earnest. It made him laugh, genuine and loud. He was such a Boy Scout.

“Oh, Q,” he said, fondness swelling in his chest. “No offense, but do you take sex tips from virgins?”

The grump returned and he crossed his arms across his chest. Eliot’s fingers fell to rest around Q’s jean waistband and hip bone. His mouth went a little dry and his heart picked up its pace. But Quentin reached one arm up past Margo’s face to smack him near his collarbone. 

“For the last time, I’m not a virgin.”

He was ridiculous. “That was a metaphor, you so-called lit major.”

“I’m just saying, I’m not a virgin.”

“Hm, but that’s exactly what a virgin would say,” Eliot said, slipping his thumb into Quentin’s empty belt loop, because he wanted to. “Wasn’t it Phil Collins who said, _The lady doth protest too much_?”

“Nah, I think that was Peter Gabriel,” Quentin said, surprisingly quick, eyes glinting under his lashes as he smiled. Eliot grinned right back.

“You two are so fucking weird,” Margo said, gathering Quentin’s hair into two sections. “Q, I’m gonna Princess Leia you, okay?”

“No, that’s dumb,” Quentin frowned in a weak protest. But Bambi kept up her work without comment and Q sighed, closing his eyes. “Whatever. Fine.”

Margo leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. “I was gonna do what I wanted anyway.”

As Quentin's hair piled into two distinct buns and Bambi chattered on about whether she wanted to debut the blue or the green bikini at the first bacchanal, Eliot smiled and rested his eyes, a rare contentment blooming in his chest.

* * *

Eliot always exactly packed two pieces of luggage to Encanto Oculto. His bags were were vintage and boxy, dark green with a chestnut silk inlay and a distressed leather trim. They were gorgeous and vintage, requiring efficient packing, since the leather was too fine to withstand magic. They were his babies. He would take a bullet for them.

Every year, he slipped in folded colorful shirts and pants, and an array of swim briefs and robes. He also placed carefully selected special occasion suits and his many accessories were cradled in their own precious packaging. And of course, the coup de grace: All his curated sex toys and lube, warming and scented to perfection. Simple, to the point, and compact.

In contrast, Alice Quinn was bringing four different huge bubblegum pink bags, all categorized and labeled down to terrifying detail. They were all from Target. 

She was frantic, biting her lip like a chew toy and fretting over whether she’d brought enough, if she had accounted for _every possible scenario_. She had even packed some actual Lycan shit, “in case of magical emergency.” He was only vaguely aware of the properties of creature shit, but as a general rule, they weren’t used in many people’s lifetime. But he certainly wasn’t going to say shit to those crazy eyes. He had some amount of self-preservation after all.

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Alice said, ever the multitasker and somehow fixated on a secondary vexation as she slammed her bag shut. 

Beside her, Julia sighed and patted her hand. She was bringing a sensible selection of three black bags, filled with necessities and clothes. Because she was nothing if not sensible. All the fucking time.

“It’s a rabbit hole,” Julia said gently. “We’ve all been down it, to no avail.”

“But it doesn’t make sense,” Alice repeated, more vehement. “They’re third years, right?”

Julia sat primly on the couch. “Correct.”

“And Encanto Oculto coincides with Brakebills South every year?” Alice threw her arms across her chest, face stern and pensive.

“Also correct.”

“Did they repeat a semester at any point?”

Julia smiled, sliding her lower lip into her mouth. “No. They did not.”

Alice’s eyes glazed over, calculations flying across the pretty blue. “How often does Encanto Oculto occur per year?”

“Once,” Julia said, catching Eliot’s eyes. He winked.

“Okay.” Alice rubbed the bridge of her nose, two sharp lines between her eyebrows. “That means they would have missed it their first year, because they were in Antarctica. Which means _last year _should have been their _first_ time.”

Reasonable and logical and wrong.

She stamped her foot down, hands flying in the air. “Yet they claim this is somehow their _fourth_ time going? How—?”

“Magic,” Eliot said, lips popping off his flask. He was straddling a dining room chair, applauding Alice’s breakdown with glee.

“But what _kind_ of magic?” Her voice was high-pitched and desperate. But then she pointed right at him and sunk into a dangerous lower register. “Don't you dare say Horomancy. That’s impossible.”

He smiled, bright and mischievous. “Just… magic.”

“But it doesn’t _make sense, _Eliot.”

At her hair-pulling yelp, Quentin popped his head around the corner. He had one overstuffed and lumpy army green duffel bag over his shoulder and apparently nothing else. But before Eliot could comment, Q blanched, lips sputtering.

“Jesus, are you talking about how the _fuck_ they’ve been to this stupid festival so often?” He didn't wait for Alice’s nod to continue his favorite little rant. Eliot preened, smile lighting the sky. “Don’t bother. I—I have tortured myself for hours trying to figure that shit out. It’s my white whale.”

“So _dramatic_, Ishmael,” Eliot said, squaring his shoulders and sticking his tongue out. 

Quentin shook his head, grabbing several spellbooks off the shelves, stuffing them without strategy into his already untidy luggage. Eliot pulled his flask to his lips and watched shamelessly as he squatted down to place his duffel bag on the floor. Ah. Yes. Three cheers for Quentin’s cute ass.

“Anyway, it haunts me,” Q said to Alice, getting back to the silly subject at hand. “But it’s also futile. I’ll never figure it out and god knows they’ll never tell me.”

“No,” Eliot said, solemn. He bit at his wrist with a hidden smile. “We won’t.”

“Maybe they’re lying,” Alice said, placing her own new tiny pink suitcase next to Quentin’s in the pile. “They seem like people who lie a lot.”

“Once again, correct,” Julia said with a grin. Eliot nodded happily in support and Alice gave him a tiny, cheeky smile back, with sparkling eyes. “But I’ve seen photos. Trust me, they’ve been.”

“For the record, all men, women, and pixies signed waivers consenting to the distribution of their image,” Margo said, descending the staircase like a goddamn queen. Eliot stood to bow and kissed her hand as she reached the final step and she twirled in his arms.

She clapped twice and two dull and unattractive second year boys rushed down the stairs. They held her enormous bags, all filled to the brim with lingerie and string bikinis. She was perfect.

“Does this mean we’re set and ready to go?” Julia asked, gliding in and cutting off Eliot’s grip around Margo. He frowned, but Bambi allowed it. “Since you’ve finally made your grand entrance?”

“Mmm, it’s not up to me,” Margo said, snapping her teeth at Julia’s lower lip. She ran her hands up and down her sides, pulling their hips together. “The portal appears when the portal appears, baby.”

“Well, that’s vague as shit,” Quentin grumbled in the background. Alice nodded at him in solidarity. 

(Most nerds loved structured schedules. It made them feel secure amidst an unforgiving landscape.)

The whiny complaints were cut off at the head, when a vine of roses slowly started rising from the floor. And as the Cottage shook, the vibrations rushed straight to Eliot’s dick.

A warm heat pooled in the bottom of his stomach, like the crest of an approaching orgasm. He bit his lip to hold back a moan and rested his hand against the back of the chair he’d been sitting in, finding a semblance of balance. The roses bloomed into a full archway and a golden light shone bright amongst the lush petals. The heavy magic wafted through the room. 

It was… a lot.

Still breathing hard and tingling with sensation, Eliot managed to glance about, delighted at the varied reactions. Julia was taking long and slow breaths in and out her mouth, gripping Margo’s hand and swallowing, over and over again. Bambi had actually orgasmed, legs trembling as she bit Julia’s shoulder. Alice crossed her legs and held her arms around her stomach. Her eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking. The tips of her cheeks flushed.

And Quentin sat down on the couch, panting heavily. His pecs were tight with pebbled nipples under his thin shirt, cheeks and neck lined in fire red stripes. His hands gripped at his knees and the tip of his tongue trailed along his cupid’s bow, eyes wide and blown out and _holy god_, he was delectable and Eliot wanted to _ruin_ him and make him scream his name until his throat was raw and—

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

Weakness acknowledged and thrown in a garbage can.

Alice stood first, clearing her throat and smoothing down her skirt. She shook her shoulders in almost a shimmy and nodded, once. Twice. She cleared her throat. 

“Okay then,” she said, voice surprisingly even, considering the adrenaline that was still pumping up and down Eliot’s spine. She let out a steady stream of air from her pursed lips. “Okay. That’s the portal then?”

“Sure is,” Bambi said, whisper-hoarse. She kissed up Julia’s neck with abandon and her girlfriend whimpered, keening. “It always makes the most fabulous entrance.”

“A little warning would have been nice,” Quentin said, strained and breathy and come the _fuck on. _He grabbed a throw pillow and threw it over his waist. “So do we just—like, walk through?”

“After we send our luggage,” Eliot said, tightening his grip against the chair. Q’s eyes fell on him for a second before they glazed inscrutable. He looked back down at his own hands, taking deep breaths.

The magic sucked the pile in through the vacuum and everyone was silent, willing equilibrium back into their trembling bodies.

“Hey, so, uh, you decide on a Regalo then?” Quentin asked, in a high-pitched voice, hugging the pillow all the tighter. Eliot nodded, head spinning.

“Uh-huh. It’s, ah—a spell that takes you to a pocket portal world and, uh,” he laughed a little, not wanting to test out his own regalo for the first time ever. Sometimes ignorance was bliss. “Uh, it lets you live out your greatest sexual fantasy.”

“That’s some VR shit,” Quentin said, groaning as he tilted his head back against the couch. Alice closed her eyes and pinched her lips. She kept fluttering her lashes open and glancing over at the lost-to-all-but-themselves Margo and Julia, then sighing and closing her eyes all the tighter.

“Yeah,” Eliot breathed out, sliding his hand up and down his outer thigh. He was craving touch. “Had to work with the Illusionist cohort, but it’ll be worth it. Pleased Elders, so to speak, lead to a better experience for all.”

Everyone murmured halfhearted acknowledgments as the tension increased. Eliot bit his lip and closed his eyes, warmth and pleasure curling all around him. It was relentless, without release. A sweet kind of torture.

But as the last luggage (one of Alice’s) was floated away, so went the charged atmosphere in the room. The air was crisp again and they could all breathe, their brains stabilizing in a flash. Julia and Margo burst out into cackling laughter, Eliot slumped onto the chair, and Quentin slammed his forehead onto his knees and shuddered. Alice stayed shock still.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Q asked, voice muffled and anguished.

“The Encanto experience,” Eliot said with an airy laugh, giving Alice a wink. Her eyes were still wide and unblinking. “Just a taste for you all.”

“Oh my god. This is a horrible mistake,” Quentin said, popping up and brushing his hair out of his face. Eliot rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be a prude,” he said, automatic. But at the same time, Julia pulled away from Margo and snorted, dipping backwards from her torso and twisting to stare straight at him.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you, Q.”

Quentin’s grumpy fire returned without a stutter. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but fuck off, Jules.”

Eliot grinned, feeling like his strongest self once again and always there for a Q-sassing-at-Julia session. He was unfettered and alive. He clapped his hands and stared around the room, taking in the final moments.

It was the last time he’d be taking the portal from Brakebills, which deserved some kind of acknowledgment. But, well, he didn’t want to think about it. And neither did Margo, by the way she was walking toward him, smiling wide and nodding toward the portal, fierce and stunning. Without even a single word, he knew she was right. It wasn’t the time for any bittersweet moping.

So he placed his hands on her bare shoulders and reeled her in for a sweet, closed mouthed kiss. She smooched his lips back and hugged him once, before pulling them forward. The roses crowned them in splendor and their toes and hands were bathed in a golden sheen, caressing.

“Ready, baby?” Margo whispered in his ear. He nuzzled her temple and nodded. They were ready.

Except.

Oh. 

But then the _craziest_ thing happened. 

Before they disappeared into the Ibizan sun, Julia, Quentin, and Alice tried to _follow them_ through the portal. They walked right toward it, happy and spry and so full of hope. Honestly, it was actually really remarkable how _confidently_ they walked toward it, as though they truly believed it was as much their portal as it was Eliot and Margo’s.

… Silly rabbits.

“Oh, no!” Margo squealed and fell over into Eliot. He laughed, loud and tilting his head back. Bambi’s eyes flowed with hysterics. “Oh, no. There’s been a miscommunication.”

Julia smiled a little and laughed, though she was unsure. Perfect Margo hadn’t prepped her one tiny bit. “Um, what? What do you mean?”

“What’s going on?” Quentin asked, harder and firmer. He was such a little cynic, my goodness. Eliot smiled wide at him, before his eyes traced back down to Margo. They laughed and laughed and laughed. 

Meanwhile, Alice was still mute and taking deep breaths.

“My sweetest honey bunnies,” Margo said, pouty and delicious. “_This_ is the portal for Eliot and me, only. I’m so sorry you didn’t realize.”

“Are you?” Julia asked, lips twitching. 

Anger engulfed those dark brown eyes of hers so delightfully. She and Quentin exchanged an unamused glance that set Eliot and Margo off all over again. Alice started wringing her hands together, and clustered in closer to Julia.

(When Bambi looked down, he shot her a quick wink and she relaxed, slightly. But he did not extend the same courtesy to Julia or Quentin.)

Eliot spoke with authority, gravity, poise. “First-timers to the left.”

At his verbal cue, the three of them followed Bambi’s perfect finger flick. The snap landed on the shit covered Port-a-Potty portal that hadn’t been there even a moment earlier. It was rusty and creaking, and a horrific smell emanated off it, hot and burning in the nostrils.

They liked to have fun.

“Seriously?” Quentin‘s eyebrows dipped down over his eyes and he blew out a puff of air from his lips. Alice and Julia slammed their hands over their noses, gagging. In response, Margo giggled louder, and Eliot simply nodded at Quentin’s sharp and blazing stare, grave and ceremonious.

“Margo, come on,” Julia said, tapping her hands against her legs.

“Oh, I will, baby,” Bambi said, stepping forward and resting both her hands on her cheeks. She kissed her once, soft, and Julia melted into it, despite herself. Eliot glanced away, a sharp pain sticking in his side. “You will too. I promise. But until then, rules are rules, and you’ll be traveling with the sexless wonders.”

Before Julia could protest again, Margo surged up and kissed her, firm but a final answer. Eliot grabbed her arm and pulled her away, bowing grandly at Quentin and Alice, both still shellshocked.

“Au revoir,” he said, full of grace. He smiled at their blank faces. “See you kids on the other side.”

Margo wrapped her arm around his and stepped through the light first. Right before she pulled him in with her, Eliot glanced behind his back, catching Quentin’s eyes. They were lighter than before, sweet and almost smiling at him. He raised his eyebrows and waved, a small thing at his side. Eliot found he couldn’t quite breathe. 

Alarm bells blared in his chest.

Before he could think about it more, a cool hand pulled him through the light. He stepped onto soft sand, sinking his leather shoes into a featherlight sparking electric current. Hands tugged at every article of clothing, stripping him down with caresses and mouths and nothing but sensation. He fell onto a pillow thick blanket, surrounded by writhing bodies and Margo’s perfect scent. She straddled him and kissed him once on the side of his mouth.

“Welcome back to Ibiza,” she whispered in his ear, before she rolled off him and someone else took her place, a perfect stranger with perfect abs and a crooked smile. Eliot closed his eyes and let the warmth overflow his ruinous thoughts.

Encanto was exactly what he needed.

* * *

The post-orgy glow had settled to a dim veil of light, and the wards opened full across the white sand beach. Cala Jondal was a secluded part of the Ibizan island, stunning and serene. It was Eliot’s favorite place on earth.

Shaped like a clam shell with pebbled beaches, the enclave was surrounded by jagged white cliffs and green pines. Above, an arching mountain sloped downward toward the greenblue sea, resting high and wide like queen’s crown. And during Encanto Oculto, the whole beach disappeared from earthly reality, floating in its own plane of existence.

Eliot slipped into silk pants and a robe, a wave of inexplicable ennui settling over him again like a velvet curtain. For a crazed moment, he didn’t want to be there. He wanted to be home. Wherever the fuck that was. But then it passed as it came. Like always.

Hundreds of Magicians came from all over the world to attend Encanto Oculto each year. The most interesting and beautiful, the heathens and the hellraisers. As he stretched into a floating white chair with a cigarette and a glass of absinthe with magical LSD, he stared upward. He let the smoke rise above him in circles. There was no real sense of time at Encanto Oculto, and the sky was art. At the moment, it was a painting of deep blues and burgundy, sparkling into clouds and stars. It was gentle and melancholy, soothing and sad.

Eliot let the drugs wash over him.

The edges of the world turned bright yellow and silver, and waves of heat shimmers rose from the ground. He could taste the drums blaring in the distance and he could feel the writhing dancers course across his skin. His legs were pins and needles, but he glided to the water’s edge. A boat sailed in, with fireworks above.

“There you fuckin’ are,” Margo’s voice came from his side and he tucked her under his arm. She was wearing her pink bikini and gold chain bodysuit from the previous year. What a sentimental old broad she was. She smiled up at him with more pupil than iris and rested her chin on his collarbone. “Missed you.”

“I love this place,” Eliot said, tilting his head onto hers. She smelled like lilacs and sugar and euphoria and rainbows. He pointed a long white finger ahead toward the shining vessel in the sea, and it giggled. It all giggled. “What’s happening out there?”

“Does it matter?” Bambi asked with a breathy sigh. It was a valid question.

So they stood with the growing crowd as the ship sailed closer and closer, and with it came loud music, eurotrash techno with live drums, pounding firm and steady. The boat jumped into the sky and landed on the shore, flattening into a golden stage with a long runway and a tiered podium.

Atop the highest point stood a handsome black man, dripping in white furs. He was bald and refined, at least thirty-five years old. He was symmetrical, from his cheekbones to his asscheeks, and he stood tall in both height and regality. His smile stretched across his face, broad as his shoulders and joyful in its worldly delight. He held his arms out as he spoke deep and resonant into the crowd, intoning a welcome chant in Spanish.

“Well, now, that is a strapping man if I’ve ever seen one,” Eliot said low into Margo’s ear. His eyes widened infinite times and he laughed, high-pitched. The man kept talking, rumbling like a light breaking through clouds. “I’m gonna fuck him.”

“He’s hot as shit,” Margo said, shrugging with far too much nonchalance considering the sight in front of them. Eliot watched how he moved. Like a dancer, like a fencing champion. His thighs were thick and sinewed, visible under tight white riding pants. His eyes were warm and gentle, and peered into the crowd like he was seeing each person, down to their souls. It was like enjoyed each of them. He was smooth and elegant, never angled and awkward.

“He’s perfect. He’s _perfect,_” Eliot said twice, with a hint of hysteria. He was perfect. The air tasted like sun beams and Skittles. The water was swirling the wrong way, but it was the right way at long last._ “_He’s exactly right.”

Nothing else had yet sated him, but someone like that would do the trick.

Margo hummed a beautiful tune and kept resting against him, swaying in the sultry and lemon meringue air. The man continued speaking to the crowd, words like _Why not seize the pleasure at once?_ pouring out him with a grip of his large fist. He stood before them, impressive and at ease, and he sang other beautiful words of hedonism, lust, and indulgence.

“Who is he?” Eliot barely knew he’d breathed the words until an accented voice answered.

“He’s Idri. They call him The King,” the boy, named Stefan said, wrapping himself around Eliot from behind. His hands pressed into his chest, lips on his neck. Eliot pulled one hand lower still; it wasn’t a cuddle party. He got the picture, but kept talking to him and Bambi, their eyes never leaving the man in furs. He was surrounded by fire dancers now and booming a laugh into the crystalline sky.

“They say he’s from another world,” Stefan whispered, tightening his grip. Eliot bit his lip and Bambi pursed hers, staring down at the handiwork. Pun intended. She rolled her eyes, unimpressed. “They say he breathes magic, like air.”

“What the fuck else would he breathe?” Margo asked, patience lost with the Belgian. She grabbed Eliot’s arm and pulled him away from the very serviceable handjob to stalk off in the distance, huffy and majestic. She was lucky she was the most beautiful woman alive.

“I wanna go to him,” Eliot said, eyes drying in the air from refusing to blink. What if the man disappeared if he blinked? But Margo sighed, seemingly sober, somehow, and pulled him over to the flowered feast near the shoreline. The first-timer portal was buzzing and shining.

Oh. Right. Julia, Alice …and Quentin.

His heart sped up.

“Our little ones are about to arrive,” Margo said, holding his hand. She held out a tiny red bottle and shook the liquid inside. “Wanna restart?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, nodding. He was nervous. Nervous and hallucinogens didn’t play well, so he drank it. Immediately, his body warmed and grounded, almost melting. Reality righted itself, but he remained tipsy and dancing and everything was perfect. In a lucky twist of fate, the mental clarity liquid took care of his pesky nerves too, right as the portal spat Julia out onto the ground.

For a moment, she laid there, face down in the sand. Pushing herself up into a plank, she wrenched her head up and spit out the sand, her lips vibrating in disgust. Then she jumped to her feet and brushed her hands down her dust-covered clothes. Her right eye twitched.

“Hey baby,” Margo said, smiling and sliding over in a figure-eight hip thrust. She let the metal of her bodysuit clink together as she went to wrap an arm around Julia. “I missed you.”

But Julia stepped away from her, finger in the air. “Ah, nope. No. You and I need to go have a discussion, Margo.”

Seemingly sober Bambi touched her hand to her chest and stared at Julia for a shocked moment. Then her eyes went wide and wet, and her lower lip trembled.

“Are you mad at me?” Margo whimpered out. The tears started flowing, hard and fast. “Oh my god. No. No, Julie. Please don’t be mad at me!”

“Shit,” Julia said, low. She wrapped her arm around the shaking and wailing Margo’s shoulders. “Shit. Honey, what are you on?” That made Margo cry harder and so she glanced over furiously toward Eliot. “What is she on?”

“Don’t know, but you have to fix that,” Eliot said in a singsong voice. “Or I will mur-der you.”

“_Don’t be mad at me_!” Bambi sobbed into her hands. “I’m sorry I did _drugs_!”

“I’m not mad at you, Margo,” Julia said, half-soothing and holding her tight. She glared at Eliot. “A little help?”

“Get her a red bottle. They’re everywhere, she’ll be fine,” he said, bored and stretching his arms out over his head. He looked back at the portal. Still nothing yet. “Q and Alice on their way or—?”

Julia laughed harsh, between pressing tender kisses to a sobbing Margo’s head. “Uh, yeah, you lost any right to act concerned the second the three of us dropped into that desert. See you later, asswipe.”

Margo spun around in Julia’s arms and gripped them, eyes wild and horrified and leaking. “Are you calling _me_ an asswipe?”

“No, no,” Julia murmured, pulling her tight as they walked away, temple to temple. “I was calling Eliot the asswipe. I can always promise you that I’m always calling Eliot the asswipe, okay?”

Sniffling as they disappeared into the crowd, Bambi let out one more mournful cry before he lost sight of them altogether. For a few more moments, the portal was silent and Eliot felt the tiny rumbles of fear stirring in his gut.  But then it buzzed and shone, and Quentin tumbled in, hair sticking up every which way and face coated in a hefty layer of dirt. He breathed in through his nose and searched around the beach, dazed, until his bloodshot eyes landed on Eliot.

His lip sneered and his eyes darted into poison, nostrils flaring like a bull.

Quentin held his hands up in the two fiercest middle fingers the world had ever seen. He conjured all the smoke from the tapestry adorned hookah den nearby him in an angry flash. The smoke swirled into tiny spirals, and they all turned into a hundred smoke hands, also all giving Eliot the finger. And in case that wasn’t clear enough, he also took the time to spell out **FUCK YOU ELIOT** above his head in crude and smoky sky writing.

He was adorable.

So Eliot smiled, mouth turned toward the dotted and shimmering sky. He beckoned Q toward him with his head. Reluctant, but without much other choice, Quentin stomped over and opened his mouth—

Just in time for for Eliot to cut him off with a series of tuts over his face and body, cleaning him up to his usual sweet and shiny state. Then he fixed his hair by hand because, well, he wanted to.

“There he is,” he said, smiling and tucking Quentin’s hair behind his ears. Q rolled his eyes and glared, yet still softening into something more teasingly mad like he couldn't help it.

“You owe me, like, a truck full of wine,” he said, mumbling rough and ragged. But his lips ticked upward.

“Think bigger, baby,” Eliot said with a laugh, wrapping his arm around him and kissing the top of his head. Fuck, his hair was soft. Fuck, he loved Encanto Oculto. But before Q could respond and Eliot could get lost in his voice and quiet wit and the playful glint in his big brown eyes and never want to leave, ever, _ever_, Alice scurried her way out of the portal too. She gulped, grabbing onto Eliot’s forearm.

“Alice,” he said, laughing. It was a relief. He ducked his eyes and pouted out his lower lip. “Are you angry with me too?”

“No, I get it,” she said, voice jittery, but eyes cool and roving around the beach. She seemed unimpressed. “Initiation rituals have been a part of our society’s cultural fabric since time immemorial.”

Q’s eyes popped out. “Are you appealing to tradition as a defense of hazing?”

“It’s not about what _should_ be, Quentin,” Alice said with a shrug. She grabbed a tall drink off a diamond floating platter. The foam glittered and reflected the natural sky above the artists’ display. “It’s about what is. There are prices to entry.”

“But I mean, like,” Quentin frowned and slumped into Eliot, snaking his arm around his waist. Taking advantage of the proximity, he buried his nose in Q’s hair. He smelled like sweat and firewood and ugh, _god_, maybe this was a very, very bad idea. “Sometimes it should be about what should be_,_ right?”

“If you want to live in a fairytale land,” Alice said with a shrug. Quentin frowned, brow rumpling.

“I mean, that’s kinda my whole thing—” he started to say, but Eliot pressed a single long finger to his lips.

“Let’s save the philosophizing for another, much more boring vacation, hm?” He said, smiling down at Quentin’s reluctant and huffy agreement. Eliot called over three shots that hung in the air. They were layered translucent white, green, and deep purple, in long and twisted hand-blown glass tubes. “You both made it, in one piece, after that nasty yet necessary simulation—”

“Simulation?” Q snapped his head toward him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Of course it was a simulation,” Eliot said, disbelieving and more than a bit condescending. Silly, silly rabbit. “We wouldn’t put you in actual danger. This isn’t Brakebills.”

“Jesus. Fair enough,” Quentin said with a shake of his head. He watched the drinks dance and stared up at the sky. “Worth it, I guess. It’s beautiful here.”

“Mmm, and it’s only the beginning,” Eliot promised, twirling his drink high into the air and calling it back down. It looked like a shooting star. “Welcome to Encanto Oculto. _Age, I do abhor thee. Youth, I do adore thee_.”

“Hey,” Quentin said, before chuckling low. “That’s my favorite Rod Stewart quote.”

Eliot’s heart skipped as he turned to look at him, surprised. His face was in serious lines, except for twinkling eyes. For a second, Eliot saw nothing else.

Alice rolled her eyes. “No, that’s from a Shakespeare sonnet.”

Quentin smiled and looked at Eliot before glancing away, amusement breaking through his voice. “Thanks, Alice.”

Okay. Fuck. Maybe it was a _really_ bad idea to bring Q to Encanto Oculto.

He swallowed around a tight lump in his throat and adjusted the tie of his robe. That way, it slung justso across his hips, projecting cool and power and poise. He raked a hand through his curls, disheveling them with purpose. He was the Prince of Brakebills. He was the Regalo Architect. He was _Eliot Waugh._

Weakness acknowledged.

Weakness destroyed via arson.

Eliot cleared his throat and plucked his drink out of the humid air. It bubbled at his touch and he smiled, wicked and beguiling at his two little nerds.

“Bottom’s up,” he said, downing it at once. Alice followed, eyes wide and delighted at the bubbling effect and proving herself as game as she promised. But Quentin held it between his fingers, rolling it back and forth.

“Um, what’s exactly in—?” His voice was low and he looked up at Eliot with those endless, swallow-you-alive eyes.

“Don’t worry,” Eliot said, giving Q’s hair a soft pet. He smiled at him, a reassurance. He forced himself not to break eye contact, even as every nerve ending in his body screamed _Run run fucking run _at the warmth that rushed through him. “Anything I give you is pre-certified Quentin-friendly.”

“Yeah, but—” He started to say, his eyes dropping down, and Eliot took a step toward him.

“You’re my guest, Q,” he said, touching his shoulder. He gave him a half-grin when those eyes tilted back up, gentle. “I’ll take care of you, okay?”

Quentin gave him a strange look at that. He wasn’t quite smiling or frowning as his eyes narrowed and his head cocked to the side. It was more like he was… searching. But whether he found anything of interest was up to someone else to determine. Because then he laughed and poured the drink down his throat.

“Well, in that case, then, uh, cheers, guys,” he said, holding the empty tube high into the sky.

It refilled. And with it, the night began.

* * *

**Encanto Oculto  
** ** _Day One_ **

The next morning, with a Tinto de verano in one hand and a _Vogue Hommes_ in the other, Eliot was in near bliss. 

The sun warmed him from bare chest to swim briefs to bare toes as he sat poolside. It was serene and lovely, the one place at Encanto that allowed natural light, with no magic. Their large cabana was luxurious, and gorgeous Magicians in various states of undress frolicked about the water in front of them. Really, the only thing better would have been a cute boy giving him a foot massage, but Q had assumed he was joking when he asked.

Oh well.

The five of them sat in a quiet row. Alice was working on her Poppers and nursing a mudslide on the far end of Margo, who was sunbathing. Julia was eating spicy chicken wings for some goddamn reason and Quentin, of course, read Fillory for the thousandth time. And Eliot flipped through the pages of his magazine, almost meditative, as he considered the model’s faces with passing interest.

His brain baked and heat danced on his cheeks under his lucite sunglasses. It almost lulled him to sleep until he heard the telltale crackle of Pyromancy and the twirling scent of fresh tobacco smoke wafting his way. He rolled his head toward Quentin and snapped his fingers at him softly, until the sound was replaced by his own lit cigarette. Good boy.

Julia kicked Quentin’s ankle with a grin. “I thought you quit.”

Quentin shrugged and ashed into the tray next to him before bringing the cigarette to his rounded mouth. “That’s a relative term. I’m on vacation.”

“Not judging,” Julia said, stretching her legs. She put her disgusting bird carcass bones to the side. “Margo’s being good and I was being good in solidarity. But now I’m questioning my instincts.”

Bambi yawned and stretched her jaw. “Smoking gives you wrinkles and makes you smell bad.”

Alice frowned and paused her hands delicate in the air. “It’s also the leading cause of respiratory disease and presents a major public health risk.”

“I will never get wrinkles, bitch,” Eliot said, ignoring Alice altogether and pointing at Margo with his cigarette. “And I always smell incredible.”

“I’m talking about lesser mortals, El,” Bambi said, gracefully moving a silk hand fan in from nose to lip. “For instance, Quentin here can’t really afford to be a smoker. He’s already going to be combating major frown lines as it is. No offense, Q.”

“Offense,” Quentin said, lazy and sleepy. He tucked his book into his side and yawned. Placing his cigarette between his lips so it dangled, he shifted on the lavish lounger. He stretched his arms over his head so the lines of his bare chest pulled upward. Humming to himself, he scratched at the smattering of dark brown chest hair around his pecs. And as he settled deeper into the cushions, his loose hair mussed in several different directions, the ends grazing the rounds of his sunburned shoulders.

Eliot’s lips twitched and he poured his drink down his throat. He let the glass rest on the side table with a clang, the ice clinking agitated in the forceful motion. Margo gave him a slow smirk before snapping her sunglasses onto the top of her head to reveal her mischievous eyes.

“On that note, it’s margarita time,” Bambi said, reaching her arm over to the blonde next to her. She patted her thigh twice. “Alice, go get me one.”

“Excuse me?” Alice said, looking up from her diligent sunscreen application. It had been exactly forty minutes since she’d last slathered herself in the white paste. Of course, that was the recommended time span on the bottle. Really, she was cutting it a bit close. She should have gone with thirty-five minute intervals, to be safe.

Margo snapped her fingers twice.

“You’re nearest to the bar,” she said, both inaccurate and impatient. “Extra salt on the rim. Extra shot of Añejo. Fresh lime juice. No sweet and sour mix. Never sweet and sour mix. I will cut off a random dick if I get sweet and sour mix. Got it?”

“Maybe. What’s Añejo?” Alice asked. Quentin sighed and sat up.

“I’ll go,” he said, putting out his cigarette and throwing his hair into a messy bun. “I need to piss anyway. What does everyone else want?”

“I want a Sex on the Beach,” Julia threw her hand in the air, with a delighted grin. Quentin glared at her.

“Seriously?”

“He’s right. They’re sweet as shit,” Margo said, scrunching her nose. “Ew. You’re embarrassing.”

“But it means Q has to say he wants a Sex on the Beach. Out loud. To a human person.” Julia’s grin grew and grew. “It’ll take him ten minutes to order it. Guaranteed.”

“You’re my dream girl,” Margo said, blunt. Julia scrunched her nose and giggled. Quentin sighed and pushed a stubborn strand of hair out of his face.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Would anyone else like anything?” He sniffed and shot Eliot a quick and inexplicable look before turning away. “And by anyone, I mean, Alice?”

She glanced up at him, though she continued working through her tuts now that her sun protection was intact. “I’ll take a club soda on ice with lemon, please. But only if it’s not too much trouble.”

Quentin shook his head, wry. “It’s not. I promise.”

And Alice smiled at him, a warm and shy and tiny thing. “Thanks, Q.”

Eliot’s stomach bottomed out with a rush of cold, though he’d jumped into the pool without warning. He blinked and his mouth fell open, his chest punched inward.

— Q?

Uh.

Since the fuck when was he_ “Q?”_

He had always been Quentin to Alice.

He was supposed to be _Quentin_ to Alice.

Eliot took a long gulp of water from his chilled Pellegrino and he took a releasing breath upon his swallow. He closed his eyes under his sunglasses.

It was fine, he reminded himself. First of all, lots of people called Quentin “Q.” Eliot called Quentin “Q” almost exclusively sometimes. It was his most common nickname.

Second of all, because it was his most common nickname, it wasn’t a… it wasn’t like a _pet name_ or anything so sentimental or meaningful. It meant nothing.

Because not everyone was so precious about what they were called, right? Just because Eliot hated when unfamiliars called him _El _didn’t mean that _Q_ felt the same way. And—and Quentin and Alice were kind of (?) friends now, so it made sense that she would evolve to calling him Q, like all his friends did.

Which led him to the fucking _third of all_, which was that Eliot really, really liked when his friends got along. Quentin getting along with Alice was no different than him getting along with Margo, and so Eliot fucking liked it. He _liked_ it. He really liked it.

Why the fuck wouldn’t he?

“Well, if that’s all then,” Quentin said quickly, throwing his sunglasses on top of his head, “I’ll go over to the bar and—”

The priority of the moment shifted. Eliot sat up straight and shook his glass. The melting ice made a tiny tinkling sound, the sweet high notes of a piano.

“Perdón, I’m dry too, mister," he said, patiently. I’ll take a—”

“Nope,” Quentin said, cutting him off. His hands flew everywhere and his jaw rippled like water over rocks. “Nope. Nope. I’m not memorizing your complicated bullshit. You can order your own.”

Eliot popped his mouth open and laughed, soundless. Genuinely, all he was going to order was a negroni, a common cocktail, perfect for a hot Mediterranean day. Bitter and chilled and luscious, as he preferred.

But now? Oh.

_Oh._

He pursed his lips and ticked his head to the side. “Well, if you wrote down what I want like I always suggest, then—”

“If you want a drink, you’re coming with me and _ordering your own shit_.”

He sighed, very put out by Quentin’s insolence and vulgarity. “All I want is a frozen highball glass with one ounce gin, one ounce bourbon, half tablespoon honey, half ounce lime juice, a teaspoon and a quarter of grated fresh ginger, lemon zest, and egg white, shaken together for approximately—”

“Oh my god, Eliot.”

“It’s rude to interrupt. Shaken together for approximately forty-five seconds—”

“That’s absurd.”

“Again, if you wrote it down, it wouldn’t be that difficult,” he said with a patronizing click of his tongue. Quentin remained unamused. “As I was saying, shaken together for approximately forty-five seconds and poured over shaved ice, garnished with two thinly sliced cucumber rounds in the shape of a flower, if you know what I mean, wink-_wink,_ and—”

Frustrated, Quentin blew air into his cheeks, puffing them out like a fish, and crossed his arms over his hot little unfair goddamn body. He made it way too easy.

“You’re the most ridiculous person alive,” Q said, pulling his aviators over his eyes. They slipped down his nose.

“Sure,” Eliot said, before grinning wide. “Hey, unrelated, but is that a Fillory branded swimsuit?”

There was a small golden Ember’s seal next to the pocket, almost obscured. The fact that Eliot could recognize _Ember’s seal_ on sight wasn’t important. What was important was that Quentin’s whole body flushed red down to the elastic edge of those very swim trunks.

Thank you, weird British eBay specialty goods seller, for your noble service.

“That’s not—I’ve had these for a long time—“ Quentin stammered and Eliot smiled and smiled, blowing smoke in his face. Q huffed. “But my ridiculousness doesn’t negate your ridiculousness.”

“Au contraire, sweet baby Q,” Eliot said, holding his cigarette in one hand and rolling his lip between his teeth. “My so-called ridiculousness is more like... _stylish eccentricity_, whereas you, my dearest yet most hapless friend, are—“

“Excusez-moi, Nick and Nora?” Margo cut them off, fluttering her vicious eyelashes. Her middle finger pressed hard against the arch of her eyebrow. “I’m losing wood and my ideal BAC level. Shut the fuck up and go get my goddamn drink.”

Quentin blushed again and cleared his throat, chastened. “Sorry, Margo. I'll head out now. Sorry.”

This reaction pleased the queen. She smiled brightly and stretched her long leg out and kicked the back of his knees. “Your ass looks great in those trunks, Coldwater.”

Unable to resist Bambi’s charm, he kicked her back with a disbelieving grin and a clear eye roll that reached up to the sky. They were cute. He could watch them be cute at each other all day, every day, for the rest of his life. Maybe Q could be their manager in Vegas.

But then Quentin broke the spell by sighing and turning to Eliot. “Seriously though, if you want a drink, you’re coming with me.”

He stuck out his tongue, but nonetheless slid his way out of his comfortable chair. He put out his barely smoked cigarette, tutted out a fix to tighten Quentin’s aviators because it was annoying as shit to watch the _minor mender _ignore it, and wrapped his white and gold-embroidered robe around his shoulders. He was so long-suffering, it was absurd. But with a final tussle of his curls, he smiled at Quentin, who pinched his face at his attire.

“How the fuck are you overdressed even at the pool?”

“Overdressed is a nonsense term,” Eliot said as he stretched his arms wide. He landed one around his friend, walking them toward the glittering bar in the distance, as Quentin kept muttering about how he didn't realize there was a _dress code _and how he should have brought his _designer flip-flops_ and other grumpy nonsense.

He was such a brat. It was great.

* * *

Of course, Quentin made Eliot order all the drinks.

As soon as they reached the bar, he turned to him and said, “So, uh, you remember what everyone wanted, right? Because I really have to pee and you’re, like, so much better at this than me anyway, so gonna go, bye.”

Then he backed away from Eliot’s protests with a series of _pew-pew-pew_ sounds and finger guns, as one did. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. His ridiculousness absolutely negated Eliot’s ridiculousness.

And Eliot was absolutely not smiling to himself like an idiot after the order was put in and he stood at the bar, scrolling mindless through his phone. And he definitely was not _still_ smiling to himself like a _goddamn_ idiot when the sound of trotting hooves announced themselves, surreal and regal.

A chestnut horse whinnied and every eye turned in awe. Astride the Friesien was Idri, the King of Encanto Oculto.

Idri slowed the stallion to a walk, and patted his side until he stopped right beside Eliot. He let out a deep sigh and wound himself off the horse, landing with grace beside the bar. The collective held breath released and the world spun back on its usual axis. The man dusted off his tight pants and smiled over his beautiful, defined, shirtless chest.

Eliot’s smile turned from an idiot’s to a predator’s.

He positioned himself so that Idri wouldn’t be able to help but notice him, and it worked in an instant. Catching Eliot’s gaze with a small smile, Idri bowed and laughed. With a snap of his fingers, the horse disappeared, to wherever magic horses lived.

“Pardon me,” Idri said, standing back at his full height. His eyes trailed up and down Eliot’s robe and bare chest. He licked his lips. “I should assure you that I’m aware how of how absurd that was. The Elders like their pomp and circumstance, on occasion”

“_A horse walks into a bar_,” Eliot said, flicking his eyes upward in mock-thought. “With such iconic imagery, how could I find it absurd?”

“I’ll take your teasing in the light-hearted manner I’m sure it's meant,” Idri said, smile broadening and Eliot clicked his tongue.

“Always, sire,” he said, inclining his head. Idri laughed, loud and cheerful.

“My reputation precedes me once again, I see,” he said before heheld out his hand. Eliot took it, sliding their fingers together, slowly. Their eyes met. “I’m Idri, Elder liaison.”

“Eliot, Regalo Architect and Brakebills third year,” he said, taking a single step closer. So Idri could hear him, of course. “May I order you a drink? I’m esteemed for my mixology knowledge.”

“By all means,” Idri said, with a sweep of his large hand. “I prefer a strong, sturdy libation myself.”

“A man after my own heart,” Eliot said, thumping his chest once. He twisted around and leaned sultry along the glowing counter. The bartender was at immediate attention. “A Boulevardier for the gentleman, if you will. With Pappy’s, Dolin Rouge, and the charmed orange oil.”

“Now, this is why Encanto Oculto is such a special event,” Idri said, sliding into the space right next to Eliot. His shoulder brushed his, highlighting that they were the exact same height. Not ideal, but workable. “You meet the most interesting people.”

Eliot smiled and handed him his drink, which came up in record time. Perks of royalty, he supposed. “You’re being modest, your grace. After all, the rumor mill says you’re a visitor from another world.”

He meant it as a joke, but Idri paused over the rim of his glass. His deep brown eyes glinted and he pursed his lips. He pressed his hand over Eliot’s and stared at him, fervent and secretive.

“That’s because the rumors are true,” he said, gravelly. Eliot’s eyebrows shot up. “I am from another world.”

“Oh,” Eliot said, surprise stuttering in his chest. Huh. Magic had tricks up its sleeve yet.

“I’m from a corner of the multiverse the likes of which none here have ever seen.” Idri dipped his head low, speaking in a hushed tone. Eliot’s heart sped up, intrigued. “A land strange and unfamiliar, a land cloaked in magic and mystery, a land that is incomprehensible to the human mind.”

He looked back and forth to check for spies before he beckoned Eliot closer with his finger, hooking in. Bated breath, he stepped toward him, until he could feel his breath on his neck.

Idri whispered in his ear, “A land called—_Cincinnati_.”

It had been a long time since a stranger’s flirting had yielded a genuine laugh out of him. But that actually did it.

“Cheers,” Eliot said, finally getting his own drink from the bartender and clinking their glasses. Piled in front of him, Julia's tacky drink sat beside Alice's water, which sat beside Bambi's margarita and Q's dark and stormy. But he couldn't bring himself to care much about that, not with Idri’s smile so warm and friendly on him. His attention and obvious interest felt good. Really good.

Eliot grinned, thinking of the boring gray of Ohio contrasted with the sparkle of the man in front of him. “I’m sure you bring it much needed panache.”

“Quite the opposite,” Idri insisted. He took a sip of his cocktail and leveled Eliot with an intense look. Then he brought his fingers to his lips in a chef’s kiss and rested his hand against his heart. A silent compliment that reached Eliot's toes. “After all, they don’t call it Cinci-_naughty _for nothing.”

“Emphasis on _sin,”_ Eliot said, missing no beats. Idri laughed, a booming sound.

“Beautiful and clever is a rare combination,” he said, bright white teeth gleaming against the blue and purple jeweled awning. A sparkling jolt zinged through Eliot’s spine and he stood taller.

“Like knows like,” Eliot said, trailing his eyes up and down Idri. He received a lazy, charged half smile for his effort. _Fuck yes._

But his victory lap, so to speak, was cut off by a loud guttural sound, a throat clearing behind him. Eliot glanced over his shoulder to see Q standing with his arms crossed and face scrunched. He tapped his foot impatiently. When their eyes met, he widened his lips into a large, false smile. Ever the charmer.

“Ah, yes. Idri,” Eliot said, slowly and stretching the name out. He looked back and forth between the two men. “This is my friend, Quentin. Quentin, Idri.”

“Nice to meet you, Quentin,” Idri said, inclining his head and stretching out his long arm and large hand. Quentin’s brow wrinkled for a second, but he accepted the handshake.

“Uh, yeah. Hey,” he said, before quickly letting go and running his hand through his hair. He looked at Eliot. “Are the drinks up?”

“Right there, but I need a couple minutes,” Eliot said, pointing at the sweating glasses. Quentin sucked his cheeks between his teeth, like a fish. He drummed his fingers over his crossed arms. Idri smiled.

“Are you at Brakebills as well, Quentin?” He asked, leaning against the counter on one elbow. He nursed his drink, sipping it like it was a precious ambrosia.

Quentin slid his eyes over to Idri and nodded once. “Yup.”

Jesus Christ.

“Q’s a second year,” Eliot filled in, showing him how the fuck you were actually supposed to do this. “We’re both Physical Kids. I’m a kinetic and he’s in the mending discipline.”

“I was an Illusion Kid myself,” Idri said, twisting his hand to bring up a fast spinning constellations, to prove the point. “Large-Scale Projections.”

“Ah, that tracks,” Eliot said, sweeping his hand around to indicate the splendor around them. Idri bowed a little. Quentin craned his neck to see what the bartender was doing.

“I envy you both,” Idri said, trying to catch Quentin’s eye to no avail. “My days at Brakebills were some of the best of my life.

“Uh, so that must have been awhile ago then, right? Like, _awhile_ ago,” Quentin said, having apparently found his voice. He shouldn’t have.

Idri responded with far more grace than deserved. “I graduated in the late nineties.”

“So now, what do you do? Are you one of the Elders or—?” Q asked. One of his eyebrows lifted upward as he said it, his not-so-hidden meaning stark. Eliot cut Quentin off with a loud laugh and gripped at his forearm.

“Quentin’s not actually a rude person,” Eliot said with a tight smile. He also kicked his ankle for good measure and relished the tiny _Ow_ as he did. “He just plays one on TV.”

“It’s fine, Eliot,” Idri said, so very poised. Unlike someone. “To answer your question, Quentin, I’m actually a _liaison_ to the Elders. Most of my job is coordinating the ins and outs of the festival’s logistics. I organize all the artists, the musical acts, varying illusions, et cetera. You name it, I’ve lost sleep over it.”

“Cool,” Quentin said, low and monotone.

Then he swallowed and averted his eyes. Eliot gripped his forearm hard again to grab his attention and shot him a dark look. Something frustrated and undefinable passed over Q’s eyes and he set his jaw. But then he cleared his throat and stuck his hands in his swim trunk pockets, softening.

“Um, that sounds like interesting work,” Quentin said, still staring down at his feet. But at least it was slightly better.

“It does sound like you have an exciting career,” Eliot said, turning back to Idri. He was surprised how much he meant it. “How does one even get into that?”

“Well, it’d be against the spirit of Encanto to talk shop at the pool bar,” Idri said with a wide grin. Before Eliot could stop him, he tipped the bartender on their behalf with a wink. Quentin suppressed an eye roll, because he was some kind of alien that didn't recognize kind gestures.

“But I’d be happy to chat with you about it in a more intimate setting,” Idri said, smiling and looking Eliot right in the eye. "Over dinner one night while we’re here?”

His insides coiled with pleasure. “Absolutely.”

Quentin crossed his arms and tapped his foot. “The ice is going to melt in these drinks, El.”

“There’s a fucking cooling charm on them, Q,” Eliot said out the side of his still-smiling mouth. Jesus, could he not give him five seconds?

“But everyone’s waiting—”

“And I will _never_ keep revelers waiting,” Idri said, clasping Eliot’s shoulder under his warm hand and handing him a small slip of paper in the same movement. He glanced down—it was his phone number. Victory rushed through him all over again. Idri smiled, wide and bowing. “Enjoy the rest of your day, gentlemen. Please let me know if I can be of any service."

With another incline of his head, he brought his lips to Eliot’s ear and smiled. “I especially hope to hear from you soon.”

“Bye,” Quentin said, harsh tone of voice not yielding. But when Idri looked up at him with happy eyes, he softened and shifted on his feet. “Um, I mean. Hope you have a good day too.”

With a final squeeze of Eliot's shoulder and a last lingering look, Idri was gone. Quentin cleared his throat, grabbed one of the plentiful ice waters, and took a long sip. With a releasing _Ah_ sound, he craned his neck to stare off after the departed Idri and snorted.

“That guy's a tool,” Q said, rolling his eyes.

“What the hell is your problem?” Eliot snapped. At the same time, he separated the drinks out so they could gather them in their hands. He was too irritated to float them. One might find itself dumped over Quentin’s head.

“He just seems like a tool,” Q said with a shrug. “I mean, Jesus, if I’m even _talking_ about Encanto Oculto when I’m his age? Fucking kill me.”

Oh._ Right._

Eliot's jaw clenched.

Because Quentin was so much more evolved than the all silly people with their silly parties. Because only a frivolous idiot would be interested in that kind of bullshit. Because only morons liked social events and people and pretty lights over philosophy or literature or quantum metaphysical magic theory. Because someone like Idri—a dumb asshole who only cared about aesthetics and cocktails—wasn’t mature enough or interesting enough or _good enough _for the moody and book smart enigma of Quentin fucking Coldwater.

Eliot’s face was pinprick hot and he elbowed his way back toward the girls, while Quentin walked a few feet ahead. A storm cloud formed in his chest, wrapping his ribcage in a vice. He swallowed, and swallowed, heart pounding out his sternum and eyes burning.

“Oh, and by the way?” Quentin said, turning around and walking backwards. Eliot almost snarled something truly vicious at him. But with a shit-eating grin and a loud hissing whisper, Q pointed a free finger to the space behind them, where Idri had been. “_Beefcake_.”

Eliot rolled his dark eyes with a scowl, signaling all his frustration in a single sharp glare. He wasn’t going to give him an inch. He didn't deserve it. So it was only when Q shrugged and turned back ahead that Eliot took the opportunity to let his traitorous, unhelpful smile slip loose. It really was hard to stay annoyed at him for long.

And his ass really did look _great_ in those trunks.

* * *

_SMS with “_ ** _Q (cute face w long hair + flannel)_ ** _”  
_ _11/12/16 4:12 PM_

Eliot  
Where are you

quentin  
no punctuation what have you become

Where are you, asshole?

nice comma

Boat leaves in 30  
Margo’s phone is dead but she says, and I quote,  
“[She’ll] rip [your] perfect dick off if [you] [make her] late.”

you fucking dweeb  
is this the new york times?  
off the record: it is perfect

Seriously, where are you?

scratch that: on the record  
publish it, mr. editor

She’s really mad

oh tell her to ice her twat  
get her nips licked  
& calm the fuck down

Yeah, I’ll say that  
For sure

kissy face  
be there in 5

Uh-huh  
So we should leave without you, right?

oui oui, ami

NOPE GET THE FUCK OVER HERE  
Say goodbye to the rando cock, dickbag

casse-toi

Sweetie if you aren’t here in ten mins?  
I will BURN all your beautiful clothes

omg relax

They will call it “A Song of Paisley and Fire”  
TRY ME A S S H O L E

jesus christ fine  
omw

Hey, sorry  
Margo grabbed my phone

whatever you say, liar

* * *

Four hours later, Eliot had definitely missed the boat to travel to the outer island for the banquet feast, but the hook ups had been worth it. God bless Encanto Oculto.

Even better, in a minor miracle, Margo was all bluster for once and his wardrobe was intact. Not that he had been genuinely worried, but he had been genuinely worried. So after Huey, Dewey, and Louie finally left, Eliot tugged on a too-tight white polo and buttoned his floral pants. He tutted out a few flame resistant spells on his remaining clothes (to be on the safe side), and then stepped out into the communal area of the house. He was ready to dazzle.

It was almost time for the first big blow out of Encanto, a raver-style club party-slash-literal bacchanal, across the whole beach. It wasn’t actually his style; he preferred his debauchery candlelit and sweaty. But it was crucial to see and be seen early on, to establish yourself as a worthy participant. So he wouldn’t miss it for the world, and neither would his friends under his tutelage.

Speaking of, his mood brightened at the sight of Miss Alice Quinn. She sat alone in the center of a giant magenta couch (?) and was enjoying a bowl of Lucky Charms. She was already dressed for the evening, in a black silk dress. Her smile was tiny around her big spoonfuls and he felt a rush of affection for her.

“Careful,” Eliot said with a half-grin, fussing with his collar. Flipped up? Down? Preppy confidence or relaxed cool? Both, neither? Such was his life. “Those might literally be charmed for all you know. Always assume magic.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Alice said with a tiny snort. She dipped her spoon in and let the milk fall in a stream back into the bowl. “So far everything I’ve seen has been interesting, but not particularly advanced. I don’t think I’ll be bested by sugar cereal.”

He hummed a noncommittal sound and slid next to her on the absolute monstrosity of a furniture piece. Jesus. Ignoring that, he wrapped an arm across the length of the couch and focused all his attention on her. He hadn’t been great about that yet.

Alice smiled at him. “You smell good.”

He did. New cologne.

“You look lovely,” Eliot said in return and she blushed. He placed a warm hand on her knee. “How has the first day treated you? I’ve been remiss in checking in.”

Her eyes brightened. “Oh, it’s been wonderful. I’m having a nice time.”

Eliot shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He smiled as bright as her eyes. “Really?”

“Yes. I'll admit I’m not much of art person, generally,” she said, taking a final bite of her cereal. It left her with a slight milk mustache. She put it to the side and curled onto her legs so she could face him. “But Q and I spent almost a lot of last night wandering the galleries and trying to work out the magic and meaning of all the pieces. It was both fun and educational.”

Eliot’s smile dimmed. “Right. I noticed you two have been quite the pair.”

He hated it. He fucking hated it. He didn’t want to examine it, but he hated it. Hated it. _Hated _it.

“I think he’s worried I’ll be overwhelmed by all the sex and drugs, so he's trying to be a buffer,” Alice said with a smirk. She stretched her fingers out, creating tiny sparks without even meaning to. “One day I’ll invite him over to meet Stephanie and Daniel. Then politely let him know about all the dried egg on his face.”

Fuck. She was wonderful. She didn't deserve an ounce of his petty ire. It was irrational. He was being a dickhead. And he _desperately _wanted to meet Stephanie and Daniel. Quentin would have to get in line.

“He means well,” Eliot said, instead of any of that. He pulled his flask out and took a sip, before offering a nip to Alice, more perfunctory than anything. But she surprised him and took it from his hands. He smiled.

“I know he does,” she said, making a face at the scotch. Laphroaig was a hell of a place to start. But she still took another pull, valiant. “I see now why you like him so much. To be honest, I didn’t get it at first.”

“You weren’t a fan?” Eliot asked softly. He knew Quentin was an acquired taste to some people, but he personally didn't understand that. There had never been a second he didn’t like Q.

Alice shrugged. “I thought he was okay. But once I realized that sometimes he’s being funny _on purpose_, his appeal started to click into place.”

“It’s about forty, sixty,” Eliot said, grinning. “Purposeful, not.”

Alice looked both ways before leaning in with a toothy smile and whispering, “That might be a little generous, Eliot.”

He laughed at that and took his flask back. “Perhaps. But now you’re on _my_ turf, my dear. No more Quentin's Learning Journey, I'm not sorry to say. I hope you’re ready for the time of your life.”

But Alice snorted again, all the louder. “Margo already gave me the rundown about this particular party. She may as well have had a PowerPoint presentation called _Ways Elsa Might Embarrass Me and How I’ll Murder Her if She Does: A Three-Point Prevention Plan._”

“You’ll be fine,” Eliot said wrapping an arm around her. “Bambi loves a good threat and turning good clean fun into a violently structured hierarchy, that’s all.”

Alice laughed. “I hadn’t noticed.”

“What matters is that, tonight, I’m all yours, okay?” Eliot said, popping a kiss on Alice’s cheek. She scrunched her nose back at him, undeterred by Bambi. She was much tougher than she looked. “Promise. At least, once I herd these cats and we actually get going.”

“Q and Julia are getting ready in his room,” Alice said, jutting her thumb over her shoulder. “But I think they’re fighting. I heard raised voices and then a ward went up.”

Ugh. Great.

With a sigh and a quick pat on Alice’s pretty head, Eliot pushed himself up off the couch by his palms. Time to do the worst part of his job.

Moving through the honestly absurdly decorated apartment, he stopped in front of Quentin’s door. There was definitely a ward, so he looked through a frame to see what he was working with. It was shoddy, hastily thrown up.  Q’s work.  Without even thinking about it, Eliot waved his hands up and down, breaking it so they would hear his knock. But as he raised his fist to pound on the door so they would move their asses, he paused his hand in the air as the voices became clearer.

“It’s _magical orgy week_,” Julia’s voice said, exasperated. He could hear her hands on her hips, the little lines between her brows. “Why the hell did you think this would be a good idea?”

A book thudded against the floor. Eliot could tell it was a book because he could hear the flutter of pages.

“Terrible ideas are kinda my M.O.," Quentin responded, wry and dry as ever.

“I’m not sure what you expected here,” she said, unbending and harsh. “You’re going to get hurt. Over and over and over—”

“I’m a masochist,” Quentin’s voice said, cutting her off. He was trying to chuckle, but it came out strained. “Important to stay consistent. Principle of the thing.”

“You say that like it’s a joke—“

“Jules. I’m fine,” he said, sounding distinctly _not fine_, but that was none of Eliot’s business. “I know what I’m doing.”

Her foot stomped down, audible. “Historically, that hasn’t been the case.”

“I knew what I was getting into,” Quentin sighed and another book thudded at the wall. He cursed under his breath and the pages fluttered upward.

“There’s a difference between theory and practice—“

Yet another book thudded to the floor, bouncing off the wall. “Whoa, no shit?”

“Quentin.”

“Hey, uh, have I ever told you how much I_ love_ when you make that face _and_ use my full name at the same time?” Oh, no. Bitchy Q was coming out to play. Danger, Will Robinson. “It always means great things for the conversation.”

“Excuse me for giving a shit about you,” Julia’s voice said, venomous fire.

“Do you give a shit about me,” he was getting more and more tinny and frustrated, “or do you give a shit about the care and keeping of your high horse?”

She scoffed, “Right, because you’ve never been reckless or obsessive when it comes to—“

“Yeah, well, you’d know about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Don’t you dare throw that in my face,” Julia said, and another book hit the wall even harder. What the hell was he doing? “We are fucking past that—“

“Obviously, but you think it’s the same when it’s _not_. It’s different because—“

“It is the fucking same! It’s exactly the same. No, actually, you know what? You’re right. It’s not. It’s worse. Because you’re an adult now.”

“Then treat me like one and let this the fuck go.” That time, it sounded like he straight up threw a book at the wall.

“Just... don’t torture yourself, okay?” Julia's voice said, so much softer than before. “Move on, Q.”

“Because you’re so certain that would be the result?" Quentin let out a bitter laugh, with a tinge of sadness at the faltering edge. "That I'll have to _move on_?”

“If I’m wrong, I’ll be glad for it,” Julia said, laughing a little herself. But then she let out a long breath and he heard someone move off the bed, with quick and determined steps. “But come on. The Scorpion and the Frog, okay?”

Another book slammed at the wall. “Jesus fucking _Christ,_ Julia. You've made your feelings clear, alright? I get it. I get your fucking perspective.“

"Don't shoot the messenger, Q. All I care about is—"

Yeah, okay. Eliot had probably listened longer than he should have.  He was being rude. And creepy. Definitely creepy. Which was why his heart was racing like it'd been shocked with a taser, he was sure. So Eliot blinked once, hard, to reset himself and took a deep breath. Then he knocked too bright, _shave-and-a-haircut_. Two snips.

“Q, I broke your shitty ward,” he called into the wood, too loud and too sweet. “Because it’s time to get fucking moving. Coming in now, so if you’re jerking off, you have five seconds to—“

“I’m in here too,” Julia said with a loud sigh, the ruse complete. Eliot smirked to himself and turned the handle. When he stepped into the room, Julia was hugging herself against the dresser. Quentin was spinning his Fillory books in the air, practicing telekinesis. Only the most astute could have picked up any tension. Thus, for Eliot, it was rife, but he pretended otherwise.

“You kids finally ready to head out? Our first full night awaits,” he said, blithe and unbothered, looking back and forth between them. Julia was in a yellow sundress with fringe and Quentin was in khaki cargo pants under a plain black T-shirt. “Hm. Well. I suppose as much as you’ll ever be.”

Julia scrunched her face. “Fuck you, I look good.”

Eliot held his hand out and pulled her into his chest. If she seemed unusually tense in his arms, he pretended not to notice. “Of course you look lovely, darling. I was more speaking to your buddy pal here.”

“But this is my best T-shirt,” Quentin said with a grin, standing up from the bed and flying his books into a small pile on his nightstand. “The tag says it’s mostly polyester, but it has some wool too. I got it at Macy’s. Forty percent off.”

“Stop talking,” Eliot said, sighing fondly.  But Q elbowed him, leaning into his other side, arm wrapping around his waist. On instinct, Eliot brought him in closer, so he could feel the full line of his body against his. It was pathetic, but he would take anything Quentin would give him.

At the same time, Julia pulled away, to fix her hair in the mirror over Q’s dresser, lips pressed down in concentration.

“You look good,” Quentin said without preamble, glancing him up and down with a tiny smile. Eliot snapped his eyes down at him, heart pounding. His throat seized up, dry and aching. “Very tropical. It’s nice. Suits you.”

Eliot could count on his hands the number of times Quentin had complimented how he looked. And he could count on zero hands the number of times Quentin had _directly_ complimented how he looked. He licked his lips and his brain whirred.

What was different about this outfit? Why did it—how did it—had he been choosing wrong all this time? He suddenly hated every single piece of clothing he owned, except for the ones currently on his body. His hands tingled and he fought his usual urge to pin Quentin down to the nearest soft surface, roaring stronger than ever. God.

Fuck.

Shit.

Eliot schooled his face into a vaguely amused twinkle and smiled at Quentin with a scoff. But his heart continued slamming itself against his ribcage as Q angled his face up at him, sweet and genuine and open. Too open. Too dangerous.

He wanted to kiss him. 

But even more than he wanted to kiss him—which was a fucking lot—everything inside him wanted to whisper back something true, something kind, something real. He wanted to say something like, _Thank you, Q. I hope you know I’m only teasing. I think you look very handsome._

_You always look so handsome._

_You’re beautiful, Quentin._

And in another world, he might have. In another world, he would have said all that and more, tucking his loose hair behind his ears before pressing his lips soft against his, warm and gentle and full of everything he felt. Maybe then he’d understand. Maybe then he’d know.  He’d have to know.

But in this world, in reality, the only thing Eliot knew was who he was. Nothing had changed. So he winked and elbowed him back, all while directing him and Julia out the door and toward Alice and the night ahead of them. He patted Quentin’s back and kissed Julia’s head, detached and cool as ever, ready to take on whatever glory came their way.

And so Eliot merely chuckled, haughty and aloof, and spoke behind his shoulder.

“Well, someone has to make the effort.”

* * *

Eliot should have known that the reveal of Bacchus, the actual Roman God of Revelry, wouldn’t impress Alice Quinn.

He had thought she would at least be interested in the academic nature of his existence. That she would be fascinated by what it meant for the epistemology of the natural order of things, that the Greek and Roman gods were actual entities. But instead, as they stood on the warded, bass-vibrating beach, Alice rolled her eyes. She took a shot when Eliot pointed him out, tall and wearing a silver thong and a green feathered top hat.

“That guy’s an ass,” she said, sticking her tongue out and shuddering her whole body for effect. The beat dropped behind them and the revelers hollered in sweeping unison. “Stephanie and Daniel summoned him when I was sixteen and he spent the whole time talking about how he wanted to _motorboat my tits._”

Hm. Okay. That tracked.

“That’s kind of—“ Eliot cleared his throat, feeling awkward. “Sorry.”

Alice shrugged. “Age of consent is a human construct. He was an ass, but not acting outside his own ethical structure.”

“You’re assuming he has one,” Eliot said with a disbelieving snort. He knew Bacchus pretty well. He was not particularly concerned with _any _ethical structure, let alone an internal one that guided his own actions.

But she just hummed and stared up at the sky, painted in Romanesque frescoes. “He was also really into Trivial Pursuit? Every time the orgies stopped, he pulled out a different version and insisted on everyone playing. It was weird.”

Eliot both laughed and grimaced over his glowing lilac drink and finished it in a gulp. He needed to refocus his strategy. Even though Bacchus was the _worst, _the first big party was always classic. He always completed the details with go-go dancers, glittering strobe lights, insane MDMA, and live polar bears in stasis. For some reason. Better than that, everyone fucked everyone, on every available space, and the dance floor stretched into the sky. So while the concept may not have screamed “Alice Quinn,” but he was still determined to ensure she had a good time. It was his job, and he tok it seriously.

Luckily, she was already tipsy enough right off the bat to make that a possibility. Her cheeks were pink and eyes dancing, and she wrapped herself around him, giggling despite herself. Once they reached the dance floor, her breath hitched and her eyes were immediately drawn to a group of dancing women. They were all Irish, from what he could tell from their accents and the path forward became clear as a beacon.

Twirling her into the music, Eliot dipped her twice, all Astaire. Then, he gave her a devlish grin and spun her out toward a beautiful red-headed woman, who smiled and gently kissed her on the lips once. Alice let out a high-pitched squeal, before pausing against the woman, flushed in her arms. Then, like she was possessed with newfound inner fire, she kissed her back in earnest, open-mouthed and urgent. Pride swelled in his chest and he could have cried.

What a beautiful moment.

But before she disappeared into the crowd, Alice flitted her eyes over to Eliot once, questioning. Like, _Is this okay? _Like she was worried he would feel abandoned or some ridiculous nonsense. She was always such a sweetheart.

Bowing to her once, he backed away, hands wide open with the world he was giving her. Out of the corner of his eye as he left, he saw her wrap her arms around the woman's neck and pull her down into another fervent embrace. His work done—and shockingly easy—Eliot skulked off in search of his own fun, be it drugs or boys or ideally dancing betwixt both.

So as he slid and swerved his way through the crowd, he kissed and was kissed at least eight times, all tongue and teeth and meaningless want. He popped something purple on his tongue that made the world move slower, shimmering with the beat. Everything honeyed and his arms swam through the gauzy air, his eyes closed and his skin vibrating. Bodies pressed into him like a trance and his chest was bereft, wondrous and light, all at once. Everything was perfect and full and the night was the Milky Way, carrying him outside of himself.

The best place to be.

But when his eyes opened and the light of a thousand stars and fireflies wrapped themselves around his spine, tickling his soul, he found himself at a bar, in the dark. But a lighthouse was at the outer edge, bringing ship to shore. It wrapped into itself, moody and dour and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his whole goddamn life.

It was Q.

So Eliot walked over to him and touched his hair, and it was beautiful.

Quentin had beautiful hair. He didn’t tell him that enough. Or ever. He tell him, at some point. Because Quentin had the softest hair and he loved playing with it, anytime he could. And Q was so cute, like a sweet little nerd who was just... so... _fucking cute_ with his dumb clothes and his silly Fillory books and his fidgeting hands, that all just made him all the more endearing, really. And fuck, the way he listened to The Smiths, all the time, which should have been a terrible cliche. But on Q, it worked. He made it work, somehow, because he was so sweet and earnest, underneath it all. He was such a good person and Eliot was lucky to know him.

Q was smiling at him now and blinking, confused. “Uh, El?”

Cutie.

Anyway, the thing about Quentin was that he could be such an ass sometimes, but at his core, he was kind and he was hopeful, and he always tried so hard. Q always tried so hard, and Eliot admired that so much about him. _Haven’t had a dream, in a long time. _And god, he had beautiful hair. So fucking beautiful—

“Yeah, okay. You might want to take this,” beautiful Q said, handing him a red bottle. He sucked his lips inward, like he was trying not to laugh but no one told a joke. “You’re talking out loud.”

Huh.

Eliot registered that he should be embarrassed, but he couldn’t feel it. Besides, it wasn’t like Q would judge him. If anyone understood the need for escape, it was Q. Q with his dumb, adorable books and cute hair and flannel that never fit him right—

“El, seriously,” Quentin said, shuddering out that held in laugh. “Drink the fucking potion. I need to put a stop to this, much as it pains me to give up the blackmail material.”

Ugh. He was cute but he was still a dick.

“Back at you. Drink the potion.”

Quentin was a cherubic, obnoxious little brat, but truly just fucking adorable. Much cuter than he gave himself credit for. He was also kind and dependable, so if he said to drink the potion, Eliot should probably drink the potion. So he unscrewed the top, let the red liquid rest under his tongue for faster absorption, and then—

“Shit,” Eliot said, shaking his head. He stretched his jaw. He blinked. Shit. “Shit. What the fuck?”

"Welcome back," Quentin said, feasting on shit through his wild grin. Oh, Jesus.

Shit.

He blinked and took in his surroundings. He was by one of the bars, in the quietest corner. Q was sitting by himself, nursing an Old Fashioned on a stool, staring out over the stretch of the party. It was very on-brand. Also, thank fucking god, Eliot wasn’t talking out loud without realizing it anymore. _Jesus_.

“It was like you were narrating the most embarrassing thoughts you’ve ever had about me,” Quentin said with another laugh, unconcerned. Which, uh… sure. They could go with that. So Eliot raised his eyebrows, wry, and grabbed Quentin’s drink to take a sip.

Shit.

Quentin nudged him and snorted. “For the record, you have beautiful hair too.”

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek and pierced the far-too-entertained Q with a devastating glare. “Fuck you.”

“Also, cherubic?” Quentin’s smile widened into those impish bracketing dimples. Good god. “What do you think that word means?”

“It’s a synonym for 'childish asshole,'” Eliot said, snapping his fingers at a bartender. He wanted something fun and sweet, not all depressing and_ For Whom the Bell Tolls_. He ordered a couple of mojitos before huffing a breath and turning back to Quentin.

“So. Are you having fun, in this dreary little corner by yourself?” Eliot asked, deftly changing the subject. His mouth reached up one side of his face. Quentin at least had the decency to blush and rub the back of his neck.

“I mean, it’s—“ he gestured out toward the crowd. “It’s a lot.”

The drinks came in record time and Eliot handed one to Quentin. They clinked their glasses together, rote. “Mind if I give you some advice, Little Q?”

“I hate that nickname,” Quentin said with a grumble, glaring over his mint sprig.

“I know,” he said, ruffling his hair. Quentin glared all the harder from under the strands that fell along his strong brow and delicate nose. “But I’m speaking as your mentor right now, not your friend.”

“A condescending as fuck mentor?”

“I know crowds make you nervous, but it’s Encanto Oculto,” Eliot said, ignoring him. He wrapped a signature tight arm around his shoulders. He was still buzzed enough to feel tingly from the hot line of Quentin’s taut and dense body against his. “A feast for the senses and the id. If you want, you can usually take. You just have to figure out what you want.”

Quentin’s jaw tensed. “Oh, is that all? Thanks, El.”

“I’m sensing sarcasm, sir.”

“You know it’s not that simple,” he said quietly, as he traced patterns in the condensation left by the cold glass. Eliot’s heart squeezed and he sighed, placing his hand on the nape of Quentin’s neck. Sometimes he wanted to shake him, to bring him into the present moment where things were good and they could be good for him too. Bu like he said. Not that simple.

Still, he had to try.

“Q, darling, let’s logic this out,” Eliot said, leading him along the bar, in search of the platters of shots. Quentin’s hunched shoulders relaxed under his touch, which was something at least. “Do you _want_ to stand in the corner alone?”

He got a twisted smile in response. “Kinda.”

“Wrong answer,” Eliot said as he grabbed a neon orange shot and handed it over. “You are a fun and worthwhile addition to any social situation and I’m not going to let that brain of yours tell you otherwise, hm?”

Quentin was looking at him strangely again, eyes glittering in the moving lights. Eliot pushed past his racing heart to continue.

“Listen, if you want to head back to the house and read or watch porn or whatever, I don’t care but—“ He cut himself off and took a shot. No use in lying to the man. “Well, no, I would _care_ if you did that. I’d—we’d all miss you. But I do want you to have a good time, whatever that looks like.”

“I am having a good time,” Quentin said, though he gave a sad smile and licked his lips when Eliot leveled him with a disbelieving stare. He raised his eyebrows, acquiescing. “_Generally_, I’m having a good time. I’m just... in my head tonight. I got in a fight with Jules before we came here and I can’t shake the funk.”

“First of all, fuck Julia,” Eliot said automatically, sliding his hand down and around Quentin’s waist to tug him close again. “Second of all, that’s what alcohol is for, baby bear. It’s like I’ve taught you nothing.”

“El, I—” Quentin swallowed and glanced over to the crowd. “I’m fine, okay? I don’t need you to take care of me. I’m not going to be responsible for bringing you down.”

“God, you couldn’t if you tried,” Eliot said with a laugh. But then he softened, hand tangling gently in Q’s hair. “But most of all, that’s nonsense. I want this to be good for you, Q.”

As soon as the words slipped unwelcome from his lips, he was overwhelmed by how much he meant them. By how much he wanted _everything _to be good for Q. His legs were unsteady, so he leaned against the bar and extracted his hand, casual and definitely not trembling. Gathering his poise and control, he kinetically raised two of the shots in the air and winked at his friend, who was still staring and staring at him.

Enough of that.

“Courage, dearheart,” Eliot said, with a smirk. Quentin rolled his eyes. It was the exact reaction he anticipated.

“Yeah, I’m going to pretend you didn’t quote C.S. Lewis at me,” he said, though he finally took shot, jaw tilting upward to the sky. His eyes widened at the flavor and the tingle on his tongue. But then he smacked his lips and pretended to glare. “You’re supposed to be my friend.”

Eliot chuckled. “Friends don’t let friends read Narnia?”

“No,” Quentin said, eyes dark. “That’s for mortal enemies. Everyone can fuck off with their Christian bullshit. Fillory or bust, forever.”

God, he was such a fucking nerd. He was so fucking cute. His mouth went dry all over again and the only solution was to drink more. More and more and more.

“My apologies,” he said, as the booze flowed into his veins, gliding over the hot ball of fire that Quentin always sparked in his core. But Eliot would have to keep drinking to prevent it from flaring up again, because Q’s eyes stayed dark as he looked straight at him, the spinning strobe lights silhouetting his frame against the Mediterranean. 

“And uh, well, you’re definitely not my mortal enemy,” Q said, voice hoarse and burning Eliot to a crisp from the inside out. He took another shot and shook his head, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

“I mean, I should hope not,” he said, airy and arch to contrast his snarling, hot interior. There was a siren somewhere, in the distance, maybe. “Otherwise, I’ve been reading the signals wrong.”

Quentin took a step closer and his smile quirked. “Signals?”

He widened his own smile expertly as Q took a sip of his mojito, no longer abandoned. “You know. Of our epic bromance.”

The spit take came exactly as choreographed. “I’m sorry, our _what_?”

“That’s what Julia calls it.”

Quentin’s eyes widened and his mouth opened in a drawn laugh. “Jesus Christ.”

“Right?” Eliot sighed, leaning his head against Quentin’s and patting his arm. “She’s the goddamn worst.”

“You know, tonight,” he said, settling in against him and _oh_, it felt too right. Abort. Abort. Eliot pulled away, supposedly to grab another drink. If Quentin noticed the abruptness, he didn’t let on. Instead, he kept sipping his drink and sighing, that infamous Coldwater sigh.

“Tonight, I’ll agree with that,” Q said, sad and resigned and still fucking sighing. Honestly, it was a sigh that did not portend good things. So Eliot snapped his fingers in front of Quentin’s face and tapped the mojito. Dutifully, Q gulped at it.

“You know I’m always happy to talk shit about Julia,” Eliot said, and relished the annoyed grimace he got back as a reward. “But the world is your oyster, my friend, with all the aphrodisiac implications I can muster. And frankly, I’d be a terrible wingman—“

“_Wingman_? What the fuck?”

He ignored that and continued “—if I didn’t encourage you to get out there a bit.”

Quentin’s hair fell in front of his face. Another sigh. “El.”

He nudged him and kicked his ankle at the same time. “Come on. Go dance, go get tantric with a nymph, go down on a cute surfer girl, or, like, even go talk about Star Trek with _literal Roman god_. I wasn’t kidding when I said there’s something for everyone.”

“Yeah, I know, but I just—”

“No, none of that,” Eliot said, more serious than he’d been yet. He smiled softly at Q, still endlessly fond of him no matter how obstinate he was being. But this was good for him. “There has to be something you want, Q.”

“Sure, but—”

“And as your friend and mentor,” he said, chuckling but not joking, as he put both of his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, “I want you to at least try, one time, okay? Then you can fuck off and do whatever isolationist bullshit you think you want.”

“Introversion isn’t the same as isolation—“

Eliot ducked his head and stared him right in the eyes. “But you deserve to get what you _actually_ want sometimes, Coldwater. I'm serious.”

Q worked his jaw for a second, looking away from Eliot. He stared out at the crowd, unmoving and unblinking. Then, fast as anything, he grabbed another neon shot from behind him and downed it.

“Yeah. You’re right. Okay. I, uh,” he cleared his throat, eyes darting around. He grabbed yet another shot and twisted it between his fidgeting fingers before staring ahead, resolute. “No, yeah. I know what I want.”

Triumphant, Eliot smiled and licked his thumb, dabbing it over Quentin’s sexy little chin. “Then go get ‘em, tiger.”

* * *

Alice’s arms went up over her head and she shrieked in victory, the high-pitched sound laughing bright over the pounding music. Her blonde hair shone like a diamond against the inky night.

Eliot snaked his way over, the same writhing bodies now falling drunkenly into him as he landed next to her, curling an arm around her shoulders. She startled at the touch—engrossed in the game—but her eyes lit up when she recognized him and she giggled an excited_ Eliot! _as she melted into his side.

“Celebrity shot?” He asked in her ear. Alice was standing at the far end of a long and ornate silver table, with six remaining champagne flutes arranged in a diamond in front of her torso. On the opposite side, the three glasses in front of two good looking—and frustrated—Asombro students were in a small triangle.

It was champagne pong. The bougiest of the pongs.

“Only if you’re good,” Alice said, arching an eyebrow. “I’m kicking butt.”

She hiccuped. He adored her. But still, asking if he was _good_ at tossing small objects into cups was insulting. So he scoffed, shooting the small mother-of-pearl ball upward without his hands and twirled it around in the air, to prove a point. But of course, the action was met with immediate angry protests in annoyed Catalan.

“_Sense telekinesi, gilipolles_,” one of the guys said, snapping his fingers and sharpening his brow.

Jesus. What, no room for showmanship? Pissy babies, embarrassed in a drinking game by a sweet little nerd. But before he could respond for himself, Alice spit fire.

“_Merda, no és estúpid_,” she replied, stilted in her Catalan but getting the message across.

But the men continued glaring through their bruised egos until Eliot exaggeratedly plucked the ball from the air. He tossed it in a perfect spin and arch. Alice pumped her fist to her chest and jumped in the air as it hit the liquid. Eliot licked his lips lasciviously at the Spaniards, with no intention of fucking either of them. He only fucked winners.

Which was exactly what he told them at the end of the game, much to Alice’s screaming delight.

Once they thoroughly embarrassed the two gentlemen, Eliot floated the remaining champagne over to a small table. That way, they could drink Alice’s spoils as they pleased, congratulating each other on their unadulterated prowess. It must have been how Gengis Khan felt.. Only without, you know, the raping and pillaging, and more cuddling and whispering with a new good firend at a party. Details.

He drank a glass of champagne like a shot. He’d lost count of how much they’d all had to drink. Oops.

Eliot was thrilled to see Alice again, especially holding her own version of court and having a good time. She was certainly hiding in no corners, far exceeding his own perhaps unfair expectations. And she also definitely had glitter lip gloss on her neck, which was an extra little thrill all its own.

So they drank and talked and laughed, and pointed out cute boys and cute girls. Then they moved to the dance floor, finding Margo and Julia, and more neon orange shots filled their minds with fuzzy sensation. The three women danced together, equal parts goofy and sensual, and Eliot swayed to the music, watching and listening and feeling. Soon, another young woman wrapped herself around Alice and Eliot briefly wondered if he should check in on that, to make sure Alice wasn’t too drunk. That she wouldn’t regret anything come morning.

And he was going to do that. He really was. He was even making his way over to her, resolve on his lips far more than anything else.

But then a warm hand grabbed the crook of his elbow and all linear processing disappeared in a flash.

“Hey you, dance with me.” Quentin’s voice was low and raspy against Eliot’s ear, his hand tugging at his waistband.  A spiderweb of heat cascaded across his whole body and the world was in spotlit tunnel vision. Eliot repressed a swallow and dipped in toward him, automatic, his nose almost touching Quentin’s neck. For a second, he couldn't breathe.

Then he hitched a sharp breath, forcing himself to logically evaluate what was happening. Because… oh, boy. If Q was drunk enough not only to dance, but to request dance_ partners_? Then he was drunker than drunk. Eliot risked a look at his face and found his eyes, wider than the open sky, looking at Eliot like he was the only thing in the room.

Yup. Mr. Drunky indeed.

So Eliot chuckled and wrapped an arm around Quentin, letting himself be amused by the turn of events and nothing else. Nothing else.

“Well now. Who am I to deny my drunk Little Q _anything_?” Eliot said, voice softer than he wanted, even as he twisted them out onto the dance floor, exaggerated in his moves. But with a happy sigh, Q’s hands traveled up Eliot’s arms and landed on his shoulders, just as a madcap grin landed on his sweaty, bright face.

He was—

Um.

Eliot closed his eyes and focused on the music. He laughed, performative, and spun Quentin out from him. A clamorous, unruly beat had taken over the smooth and deliberate pulsing from before. Whenever Bacchus was really wasted, the vibe always shifted from hip and cutting edge house and trance music to truly obnoxious pop hits. And then when he got _really_ wasted, he played his absolute favorite song in the multiverse on repeat, his most prized hymn, at full volume so that the heavens would part in its splendor.

“_T-t-t-tasty, tasty_!” The crowd hollered out breathily, screaming into the verse with swelling joy. “_Fergalicious, def— Fergalicious, def— Fergalicious, def-def-def-def-def—_”

Which, thank god, because the music’s turn to the _terrible_ helped keep him grounded. It helped him remember where he was, who he was, and what this was. Two friends having fun. That's all.

It helped when Quentin laughed, exhilarated and uncharacteristic, and Eliot’s own grin widened with unadulterated glee. It helped as the music kept playing, and he and Q twirled each other around, stumbling in their graceless dance moves. The sheer number of drinks they’d each had were catching up with them in the best way. They kept each other upright through each verse and Eliot cackled when Quentin loudly complained about the misspelling in the song (“_There’s no fucking E!_” he hollered through the cup of his hands), until they were both red in the face and falling over each other.

The world moved in surreal flashes.

At some point, Margo and Julia joined them too, hands graceful in the air and harmonizing laughter filling his sparkling veins.

The room was spinning around them and throughout it, the warm press of Quentin’s hands on his back or tight around his waist kept him afloat, his familiar scent of drugstore soap and laundered clothes and toasted piñonr wrapping around him like a blanket.

But they were in Ibiza, so all that mixed with the sticky sweet smell of pink melon and sunscreen and fuck, he was _intoxicating_.

It was lucky that he had to breathe to laugh or he would have fallen to a puddle on the floor, dizzy and delirious.

After awhile, Margo and Julia disappeared like they were never there, and he and Q were yelling lyrics at the top of their lungs, arms around each other’s shoulders, falling over like drunken sailors in a shoreline pub.

Eliot was light and drifting on air, even as his center of gravity kept pulling him down to the floor and into Quentin.

Closer and closer and closer into Quentin.

The loud music pounded and he was lightheaded. One of his legs slotted between Q’s thighs.

His hands raced up and down his arms, tight muscles defined under his soft shirt and goosebumps rising on his soft skin with every touch.

Their chests were touching and Eliot’s lips were against Quentin’s temple, laughter dying and something hotter and sharper taking its place. His fingers gripped at empty belt loops, palms settling on hips as they moved together. 

He didn’t know the song anymore. He didn’t care.

All he could feel was Quentin, moving against him. His eyes were closed and long hair tickled his nose, and his stomach bottomed out when Q gathered him even closer, hands sliding up his chest and wrapping around his neck. Their lips almost touched before Quentin hummed out a laugh and settled his cheekbone against his.

“You’re a good dancer, El,” he whispered against his ear lobe and holy shit, Eliot could _feel_ it. His toes curled, delirious from the strobe lights and the waning night.

“At least, I really like dancing with you,” Quentin continued, turning around in Eliot’s arms—_god, why wasn’t he always in Eliot’s arms?_— tilted his head upwards to gently brush his nose against the underside of his jaw.

The strobe light blinded Eliot, weakening his legs into jello shots.

Fuck.

He swallowed everything building up inside and he blinked, reminding himself exactly where he was and who he was and what this was.

“Hm, someone’s tactile this time around,” Eliot said, gruff and spinning Quentin away and back, yet at a safer distance. “I thought drunk you is more into Margo.”

The number of times he had come across Quentin making moon eyes at Bambi after a round of drinks had never been lost on Eliot. It wasn't now either.

“Yeah, Drunk Quentin might be,” Q said, his warm brown eyes tracing up and down Eliot’s face, with a sly sparkle. “But Quentin-Quentin is—”

“Is what?” Eliot pulled him closer when he stopped talking. Quentin-Quentin is what? Quentin is _what?_

But instead of continuing down that terrifying path, Q laughed, smiling down at the ground. Then he glanced up, those fucking eyes glowing at him with something sweet and heated in equal measure.

“Let’s—um, hey, you wanna get out of here?” Quentin asked, but he was already pulling Eliot's hand toward the quiet bonfires further down the beach. His feet followed without any input from his brain. “We could, like, go for a walk?”

Eliot smiled over the tocsin in his chest. _Warning. Warning. Alert. _“Us? A walk? How novel.”

Speeding up and holding his hand firmer, Quentin stumbled over his own feet as hiccuped. “I mean, those walks are, like, the best part of my whole life.”

Holy shit.

He breathed out his mouth, heart in tremor like an aftershock. Okay. _O_kay. Quentin was drunk, he reminded himself. Drunk people say stupid shit all the time. It's kinda their thing. So instead of letting the sentiment crawl its way into his stupid heart, he chuckled and wrapped his arm around Q’s shoulders.

“Alright, drunkard,” he said, only barely rolling his eyes at Q’s immediate _I’m not that drunk._ He smiled down at him with all the friendliness he could muster. “Walk it is.”

With a quick hit of unexpected worry,Eliot looked behind him to see if he could catch a glimpse of Alice in the crowd. But she was gone, sheathed into the twisting and jolting crowd. His eyebrows twitched with a second's concern, until Quentin’s entwined their fingers and his thumb brushed gently along his skin.

She was probably fine.

* * *

Eliot always hated his feet. They reminded him of macabre accordions, a skeleton’s playthings.

Not that he would ever admit such a poetic insecurity aloud. But as much as he enjoyed a good foot massage like anyone with a working nervous system, he was always painfully aware that his feet were too long. He had thin bird bones that jutted out of his pale skin with every step. His second toe was taller than his big toe, a Morton's foot. Honestly, if he could always avoid being barefoot, he would. He would wear brogues to the pool.

So that meant one of his favorite small details about Encanto Oculto was the walking paths on the enchanted beach. Though they were invisible to the eye, the space was unblemished by the rough grains of the tiny, irritating stones that made up sand. Thus, wearing shoes was easy and comfortable. Easy to wear shoes and you could avoid the disgusting feel of wet sand even at high tide. Double win.

But god help him, when Quentin kicked his own flip-flops and giddily charged toward the bonfires, in the uncharted sand, Eliot lost himself. They charged together barefoot, still stumbling and laughing, toward the nearest bonfire, as Eliot explained the ins and outs of the nighttime beach charms. The bonfires and blankets were of particular interest to those seeking escape or privacy, a place to relax away from the crowds. As soon as the blankets sensed weight or warmth, an invisibility shield went up over it, like a cloche on a candle. It was a neat trick.

“So Phosphoromancy then?” Quentin asked, eyes matching the reflection of the moon on the sea. “Like Alice’s discipline? She's such a badass at that.”

Eliot grimaced, heart sinking. “I suppose.”

But Q didn’t seem to notice the shift in tone as he flopped down on a patterned blanket, quilted in reds and oranges, mimicking the fire beside it. In the warmth, he dipped his head back, his skin golden and dreamy.

“That’s too fucking cool. All of this is. Nothing is better than magic,” Q said, sighing with drunken delight. Eliot raised his eyebrows and snorted, shifting back and forth on his feet.

“As always, agree to disagree,” he said, a touch snottily. The muscles in his jaw were tense. He was drunk. He needed to drink more, to recalibrate. But when he started to reach for his flask, Quentin smiled up at him, eyes crinkled and warm.

“I like disagreeing with you more than I like agreeing with anyone,” he said, palms behind him and digging into the blanket. Tension broken, Eliot laughed and lowered himself down to a seated position.

“What is _‘Things Q Would Never Say Sober_,’ Alex?” Eliot quipped, sitting folded on the back of his heels. Quentin let out a loud laughing hiccup.

“That was nerdy,” Quentin stage-whispered at Eliot, giggling through every syllable. “You’re such a fuckin’ nerd.”

“Hm,” Eliot said, compelled by the booze to move forward until their knees touched. He smiled, tilting his head and wobbling with their eyes locked. “But even if I admitted it, no one would ever believe you. You'd go mad.”

Without warning, Quentin surged forward. His hands were on his forearms and his warm breath tickled his ear. Eliot could feel his smile and his body rushed with a shudder. 

“Yeah, well," Quentin said, lips too close. "Personal satisfaction is all I’m after.”

The bonfire snapped and roared. Eliot closed his eyes and forced a smile over his tight chest, still temple to temple with Q. His heart was racing, hands twitching at his side. He was drowning.

“If I didn’t know better,” he said, catching and hoarse, missing the aim for light by a mile, “I’d say that almost sounded like a line, Coldwater.”

Quentin didn’t respond to that. Instead, he pulled back and squinted, like he was seeing through Eliot, down through his skin, down into his soul. Eliot wanted to run screaming into the water. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move.

“I always like when you wear short sleeves,” Quentin said, out of fucking nowhere, inching even closer. The pads of his quick and gentle fingers trailed fire along Eliot’s arms. “Makes you seem more human.”

His lungs weren’t totally working, but he managed to wheeze out, “Human?”

“Yeah,” Q said, tiny smile flickering in the moonlight. He was so fucking beautiful. “It’s like… you seem more real to me. Like you’re actually here, instead of starring in some fever dream I’m having.”

“Um,” Eliot said, all other language failing him. Quentin scooted closer again. His fingers circled wide and always returned to the pulse point, almost tickling, but too reverent to be such. And he was certain Q could see the relentless pounding of his heart. How could he not?

“It’s like you’re—“ Quentin swallowed and glanced up, pupils vast as the sky above them “—like you’re a little less untouchable, you know?”

With that, he fell forward on his knees, his hands grazing up and over Eliot’s shoulders, until they were cupped around his face. His deft fingers danced across his cheeks in soft touches, untethering Eliot from everything tangible except Quentin's touch. It felt amazing, but it was too much, and he closed his eyes, the world swirling and tingling and nothing but—

“Q,” Eliot gasped out, desperate. “Q. What—what are you doing?”

Of course, the real question should have been _Eliot, what are you doing? What the fuck are you doing this is dangerous you know he’s dangerous what the _fuck_ are you doing? _But the drugs and the night and the line of the moon on the sand made that self-preserving voice garbled and distant, though it were speaking underwater.

And Quentin’s thumb brushed over the line of Eliot’s cheekbone, lips a hair's breadth away. He let out a small laugh, broken and wonderstruck, before he whispered, “God, you’re so gorgeous, El.”

Surf obliterated sand.

Eliot's face dropped into the crook of his shoulder, unable to stay upright any longer. “Oh my _god._”

It was desolate. He didn’t care. His hands trembled as hard as his voice. He sounded as wrecked as he felt, but he didn’t fucking _care_. Because Quentin wanted Eliot.

He finally wanted Eliot.

His hands clutched the thin fabric of his shirt, smooth and warm under his rings. Quentin, Quentin, Quentin. His nose grazed the hot skin of his neck.

“Eliot,” Q’s voice was low and rough, lips on his earlobe. Eliot’s hands found their way to Q’s soft hair and high holy fuck, if he didn’t kiss him soon he was going to die. “El, please.“

Eliot closed his eyes and pressed his lips against the salt-sweet of his neck. He kissed upward, along his favorite groove. His hands slid up Quentin’s back, relishing the feel of his firm muscles and the heat of his body. He traced his thumb over his cupid’s bow once, tingles pouring into the centermost point of his palm. Quentin whimpered, breathing hard and clutching at Eliot’s knees.

The words came out before he could stop them, husky and adrift. “Jesus. You can’t know how much I’ve wanted this, Q.”

It was like he had issued a challenge. Quentin let out a strangled sound and tilted his face upward, almost defiant. He brushed the tip of his nose against Eliot’s, and his hands stretched over and across his incandescent chest. Eliot tightened his arms around his waist and his senses went haywire. Then Q’s soft brown eyes fluttered shut, and he erased the distance between them. It was a soft touch of lips, in a shy dance. Sharp stubble above, soft parting underneath.

Eliot was frozen still, his brain unable to catch up with what was happening. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. At least, until Q’s tongue slipped light against his, seeking and gentle and snapping the entire universe into place.

Repeat the sounding joy.

He kissed him back fiercely, pulling him in as close as he could. He gripped at his neck with one hand and twisted the back of his shirt with the other. He poured everything he’d ever wanted into it, hands moving upward to his fucking incredible hair. He was the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most—the most—

“Quentin,” Eliot breathed out, between tilting kisses. He cupped his face between his hands. “_Quentin_.”

Q made a low whine from the back of his throat as he clutched deeper into Eliot’s arms. They fell on their sides, legs tangled together and lips desperate. Fuck. He’d thought about this moment so much. Too much. And it was so better than he imagined. 

He smiled into Q's mouth and kissed down his neck. Quentin arched his back and made a small choked off sound, eyes closed. Eliot scraped his teeth along the contour of his throat, probably marking him, definitely not caring. _Mine. _He was perfect. It was all perfect. Random. But perfect. He laughed against Quentin's skin, the absurdity hitting him.

"Where the fuck did this come from?" Eliot asked, joking, delirious, between messy touches of lips and soft moans. 

The question was rhetorical. He didn’t actually care. It was happening and that was all that mattered.

“I just—” Quentin answered, because of course he did. He was breathless and Eliot ran his fingers up his sides. He pulled him seated onto his lap, not willing to stop touching him for one goddamn second. " I thought maybe it was time we did something about this.”

“About what?” He still didn’t care about the answer. He wanted Quentin to stop talking. They had talked to each other enough. So much fucking talking. He kissed him, hard.

Q pulled away, panting. He only went barely an inch, their lips still tingling together. “About us. Between us. There’s always been— I mean, I’m not crazy, right?”

Eliot rested his forehead against his, breathless for a moment. “No. Never crazy. About anything.”

Still hesitant, Quentin held his fingers above his face and stared at him, wide-eyed and serious. “But you feel it too, right? Um, this—do you—do you feel the same? As me?”

Eliot didn’t really know how to answer that. He wasn’t ready to answer that. He didn’t presume to know what Quentin felt and right now he couldn’t—

It wasn’t time to think about that. Not yet. 

So instead of an answer, he bit at the bare crook of Quentin’s neck and Q gasped, palms flat and urgent against his chest.

“Don’t overthink it,” Eliot said, mouthing at his jaw. He tasted like stars. “The night is young, baby.”

Quentin's breath hitched at the endearment and he pulled Eliot to him by his shirt, kissing him like he meant it. They slid back down into the blanket, soft and deep. He stretched their hands over their heads, fingers entwined. He was beautiful. He was perfect. Everything was perfect. 

His hands moved desperate over Quentin's body, relishing the feel of his shoulders, back, his perfect ass. Eliot wasn't sure how long they stayed there, kissing like teenagers under the Encanto sky. It may have been hours. 

He would have been fine with forever.

But then Q started talking again. Because it was Q and talking was what he did. He wasn't sure if he felt more fond or frustrated at his babbling and how it interrupted all the ways his lips intended to stay occupied. It was a heady combination of the two, an intoxicating shot right in the solar plexus. He was so fucking cute. He was perfect. Eliot adored him.

He was saying something about the house and Eliot tried to pay attention. He really did. But where Quentin would usually say _um _or _uh _or _like_, he kissed Eliot instead and that was... His chest cracked open and he gently pulled him closer. The words washed meaningless over him. 

He brought them heart to heart, to quell the sting of his raw nerve endings. Eliot offered his own featherlight kisses with every breath. He was floating. This was a dream.

“—think?”

Shit.

He half-opened his eyes and smiled at the sucker punch sight of Quentin looming over him, by the dimming golden fire. The magic was fading. He tucked his tangled hair behind his ear.

“Hey,” Eliot said, voice thick. By the softly exasperated look on Q’s face, that wasn’t the expected response to whatever the fuck he had been saying. But he still kissed Eliot again and rested his forehead against his. So it was alright.

“Were you listening to me at all?” He smiled like he knew the answer.

Eliot laughed and kissed the tip of his nose. “Not a damn word.”

“Well, I was saying that, uh—”

Eliot kissed him again. None of that. Not here. Quentin shivered and smiled.

“I was saying that as much as I’d love to fulfill my Never Have I Ever destiny, maybe we should head back to the house? And to a bed? I have some stuff there. Though, uh—” Eliot kissed him, holding his face. Quentin smiled. “Though from what I can tell, my condoms might be a little tight on you, so it might be—”

Holy shit. His arms wrapped around Quentin’s waist, hands sliding up the smooth skin of his back under his shirt. He might have gasped out loud, which would have been embarrassing, except—_holy shit._

God, he was going to make it so good for him.

Eliot kissed him again, stumbling into it in desperation, pushing him back on the blanket. It was going to be so goddamn good. He would put his mouth on every inch of him. He would take him apart as long as he could bear, until he was spent and shaking in his arms. He would make him forget everything in the cruel world except how much Eliot wanted him and how much he cared for him. Then he'd know. God, he'd have to know.

“So it might be better to go to your room? I don’t know. All I want is—” Quentin brought Eliot’s palm to his lips. He closed his eyes and tucked his cheek into the warmth. “But what do you think?”

Eliot answered honestly, eyes closed. “I’m not sure I’m capable of real thought right now, baby.”

“_Baby_,” Quentin murmured into his hand. He could feel him smile as he brushed soft kisses against his fingers. Their eyes met again. “I’ll make it simple then. Eliot, I want you. Do you want me?”

His heart hammered. “Q. Come on.”

Quentin wrapped his hands into his hair. He trailed kisses along his jawline. “I hope you do. I think... I think we’ve maybe both wanted this for a long time. I know I have.”

Eliot whimpered, head falling backward. “How long?”

_How long how long how long how long_

But Quentin didn’t answer. He dug his nose into the space under Eliot’s cheekbone and gripped his arms. “Do you want me, El? I—I need to know. Please.”

“I told you I do,” Eliot said, pushing Quentin’s hair back, something cold swirling its way along the ridges of his spine. He clenched his jaw against it and reeled him back in for a fierce kiss. None of that. Not there. Not now. Not yet.

“Yeah, but—“ Quentin’s voice was muffled against his lips, and Eliot needed him to shut the fuck up. He didn’t want to think about the implications, the consequences. Not now. _Not yet. _Not when he had him, in that perfect moment. Not when thinking about the ramifications would—

“But _Eliot_,” Quentin put a hands length distance between them, breathing hard through his swollen lips. “I think, um—I mean, I know we’ve both had a lot to drink, so—“

Stop. Fucking. Talking.

“So I need to know that you understand what I want here,” Quentin finished, a death knell. He held his hand to Eliot’s heart and rested his forehead against his. His eyes shut, tight and hopeful. “And—and I need to know that you want the same thing, baby.”

Eliot sighed. He wasn’t stupid. He knew what Quentin was saying. What Quentin thought he was saying.

He knew it wasn't _Let’s fuck tonight and then forget about it_. He knew exactly what Q was trying to convey. About his feelings, about the two of them, about the assurance he wanted. He was saying that he thought it was—

That all of it was—

That _Eliot_ was—

Yeah. Fuck. He knew.

In that moment, he wanted what Eliot wanted. There was no uncertainty and no hesitation. In that moment, they were on the exact same page, drunk and wanting each other more than air, in every way.

But moments? Ha.

Moments were _bullshit_.

In that moment, in that drunken night, in the stasis between time, Quentin looked at Eliot like he was everything. Like they felt the same. Like he saw in Eliot what Eliot saw in him. Like he maybe even—

Didn’t matter.

The point was, he knew better than anyone that mornings told a different story. And days told an even worse one, harsh and flooded with too much revealing light. The reality was stark: Nothing had changed between them. Eliot was the same. Quentin was the same. What each of them wanted, what each of them _deserved_ hadn't changed just because they were both apparently attracted to each other. When drunk, at that. So. Yeah. 

Nothing had changed. Not really. But Quentin was too much of an idealist to see that, to not get swept away in a goddamn moment. 

So Eliot clenched his jaw and looked away.

“... Let’s take a beat, Q.”

The words were whispered, but they may have been a gunshot with how fast Quentin tensed in his arms.

After a torturous long moment, he slid backward off him as the words landed in the cold space between them. Eliot swallowed again, the chilled breeze strangling him. All his muscles tightened as Q’s eyes searched him, dark and unreadable in the dimming firelight. He was doing the right thing, but his body was screaming.

“Okay. We can take a beat,” Quentin finally said. His voice was even, like he was trying to sound collected and calm. As always, he was terrible at it. “What are you thinking?”

Eliot’s mouth stretched against his face, wide and cracking. Painful.

“I think—I think we’re drunk. _You’re_ drunk,” he said, cursing how hoarse he was. He cleared his throat and touched Quentin’s now-limp hand with his own impossibly heavy one. “It’s late.”

It wasn’t that late. Not by any standard. Certainly not by the Encanto Oculto standard. But.

But.

“Oh. Okay. So you don’t want to—?” Quentin’s eyes were guarded and hollow. Eliot forced another smile. It hurt even more.

“You know I care about you, so much,” Eliot said, methodical. He scratched his eyebrow. “But we have to be practical here. We can’t treat this like a random hook up, not without—" he grit his teeth and rubbed his temples. "So let’s not—let’s not do anything we can’t take back, okay?”

“Uh, okay. Okay. So… a _hook up_,” Quentin’s voice was low, verging on a dangerous sharp edge. “That’s how you see what just happened? That's how you see me?”

“Quentin. No. Obviously, I think you’re—”

The most beautiful and kind and generous and honorable man he had ever known.

Eliot huffed a sharp breath. “I think you’re great. But this isn't worth fucking up our friendship. Not when push comes to shove.”

“But maybe it wouldn’t—“

“Q,” Eliot said, firm. He hugged himself and stared down at the cool sand in the distance, dark blue and outside the glow of the moon. “Come on. You know I’m right.”

He _was_ right. They were too important to each other to let a momentary lapse, a fleeting want, screw anything up. It was good that they'd taken a breather, that Quentin checked in. It was good that Eliot stopped it. It could have gone too far, past a point of no return. One that Quentin would regret and Eliot wouldn’t survive. 

Behind them, the waves lapped quiet and steady, and Q shifted. The distance between them widened.

“Yeah, okay,” he said, barely audible He closed his eyes and nodded. He smiled, a sad but true thing. “Alright. You’re—you’re right. Uh, okay.”

_Uh, okay. _Eliot squeezed his eyes shut tight. His head and chest ached. He hated the world.

“So let’s get up, get some sleep and get sobered up,” Eliot said, clearing his throat. The world wasn’t changing. Nothing was changing. He had to get the fuck up and get the fuck on. “We’ll see where we’re at in the morning.”

In response, Quentin drew his knees in close to his chest and nodded, staring down at his feet. His throat bobbed and he rubbed the inside of his eyes, nodding again. He gave Eliot another small smile, eyes flitting about, all while sighing, like he was resigned. He pushed his hair back and looked out to the nightdark sea. The moon was behind a cloud and the horizon disappeared.

And Eliot—Eliot pushed down everything he was feeling. He grit his teeth against the way his soul _screamed_ at him, the dark stinging in the back of his brain calling him a stupid motherfucker, an asshole, the dumbest person who had ever lived—_you could have _had_ him, you could have touched him, felt him, you unbelievable idiot, you shithead, you—_

But everything disappeared when Quentin tried to stand and his legs buckled under him.

“Q!” Eliot dashed across the blanket and wrapped his arm around Quentin’s waist, all preceding activities be damned. A cold shot of fear electrified his heart. It was too familiar, it was too much, too much like when—

“What happened?” Eliot focused on what he could control. He tilted his jaw up to him, checking his pupils. “Are you okay?”

“My legs,” Quentin said, moaning and rubbing his knees. “Something’s wrong with my—shit.”

He tried again to stand, but he melted back into the blanket like goo. Eliot moved fast, forgetting all the other bullshit in an instant. His own buzz disappeared. Quentin was having a bad reaction to something. Eliot knew his way around that, if nothing else. It was time to focus.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Eliot grabbed him around his shoulders, stabilizing him against his frame and the earth. Eliot had only given him alcohol with superficial charms, gone after they danced on your tongue. No drugs. Nothing should have—

Cold dread twisted his gut. 

“Q," Eliot forced his voice to stay calm and even. "Q. Did you take anything from someone _else _tonight? Someone other than me?”

“Uh.”

Goddammit. “Quentin. What did you take?”

“So this guy named Maurice had these pills?” Quentin swallowed, like he was ashamed. Eliot held his breath, trying to remain steady despite the growing inferno in his brain. “I figured I needed… if I was gonna… you know. Stupid now though. Fucking stupid. Shit.”

Bitterness boiled on his tongue. He clicked out a laugh against his teeth, looking out at the horizon. “Do they increase your confidence or something?”

Of course. Of fucking course. Jesus Christ, Q.

But Quentin frowned. “No. That was the alcohol, I think. He said the pill was supposed to, uh—“ even in his drunkenness, he flushed deep red “—make me a better dancer. He showed me the spell and ingredients, and they shouldn’t have fucked with my brain chemistry. So, um, I took a little more than recommended?”

Eliot couldn’t deal with the implications of any of that right now. He rubbed his nose and up into his eyes, thinking through what he knew about that particular drug. Thankfully, he did know it. Quentin was right that it was physical only, imbuing muscles with flexibility and agility. It also gave you a shot of energy, like cocaine-meets-super caffeine. Part muscle relaxant, part upper. Generally, newbies took a quarter of a pill until they knew how they reacted. No one at Encanto would recommend more than that.

He took a deep breath and bent Quentin’s thumb backwards. It slid back unnaturally. _Shit. _“Okay. Alright. So, what, you took a whole pill or something?”

“Um. More like—three whole pills,” Quentin said, with the self-awareness to look away and embarrassed. Eliot’s heart caught in his throat and he almost laughed at his sheer audacity, except that it really wasn’t fucking funny.  Goddammit. God_dammit_. Thank god they didn’t fuck. Among other reasons, Q's limbs would have failed midway. He could have gotten seriously hurt. His lungs might have given out. Or his heart. Or both.

Fuck, he was so goddamn reckless sometimes, and for what? For _what? _He wanted to shake his shoulders, he wanted to scream at him. But a lot of good that would do. So he stuck to what he knew. He stuck to the tangible.

“Okay. We'll deal with that decision making process later. But can you listen to me for a few seconds? Focus on me,” Eliot said, laying Quentin down with a pillow propping his head up. He clapped at his face when his eyes started to circle around. “You’re going to be okay. Okay? I know this effect. You’re going to be fine.”

He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring.

“It’s like a version of the spins that affects your extremities. It’s the most common side effect,” Eliot continued, leaving out the part about how his crucial organs could collapse. As long as he didn’t exert himself, that wasn’t a risk. There was no need to spike his anxiety on top of everything. “But because you took so much, you're going to have a shitty time physically until it wears off.”

Quentin’s panicked eyes blinked up at him. “Red bottle?”

“No, honey,” Eliot said, trying to soothe over his pained heart. He cupped his face, stroking his thumb back and forth along his sideburns. “Those only clear your mind. This is physical. So the best thing you can do is let yourself fall asleep and run its course.”

The anxiety spiked without his help. “Oh my god. Am I—am I dying?”

“No,” Eliot said, firm. “It sucks, but it’s not dangerous. I promise.”

White lies made the world go ‘round.

Quentin’s shallow breathing into his hands was all he could hear. He moaned, shaking his head. Eliot wanted to sink into the ground, let the sand bury him alive. He wanted to go the fuck to bed. But Quentin couldn't move. Not on his own.

“We can get you back to your room, Q,” Eliot said, touching his shoulder. “I can carry you or I could use, ah, kinesis or—“

He hated the idea of using major telekinesis on Quentin. He fucking hated it. But if he had to, if it was the only way to help him, he’d do it without hesitation.

“No. I won’t make you do that. I’ll stay here,” Q said, so quiet and so soft. “I don’t think I can—I don’t want you to—“

“It’s okay,” Eliot started to say, but Quentin shook his head, firmer.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, with no room for argument. The tension in Eliot’s chest released, falling apart in pieces, and he let out a long breath. But his heart got caught in the mess, his hand refusing to leave Quentin's cheek as he started to lay down. Above them, the sky unfolded into waves of texture, like an oil painting in midnight blues and bruise purples.

“I’m gonna freak out in the morning, El,” Quentin said, curling into himself, the fetal position. “I think I’m gonna totally freak out.”

Oh, god. His heart, his goddamn heart. He sniffed back all his feeling and rubbed the nape of his neck. “Yeah, Q. Probably.”

“I’m really drunk too, El.”

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek, hoping to puncture it. His eyes burned as he managed to speak. “I know, Q. I know. Get some rest, okay? I’ll check on you before dawn.”

He pressed his palm into his cheek one more time. But as he shifted to stand, Quentin stopped him, a light touch on his knee. It may as well have been an avalanche, rocks and ice pinning him in place.

“Can you stay?” Q asked in a whisper, free hand running down the length of his face. “Not like—I mean. I get it, okay? You’re not—wrong. You’re not wrong.”

Eliot tucked his heartache away and took Quentin's hand, squeezing it. Of course he would stay. But he was still talking and Eliot never liked to interrupt his thought process. Not when it mattered. Right then, it mattered.

“But I mean, like, can you still stay?” Quentin wrenched it out, like there was any doubt. “As friends. It's just— I’m just—I’m gonna _freak out_ and if you’re gone, that’s gonna be—“

He cut himself off, but Eliot understood. His fingers slid into Quentin’s hair. Soothing. He hoped.

“Of course I’ll stay,” Eliot finally said, quiet. It was fine. They were friends. That was what friends did. “I’ll always stay.”

Quentin nodded and curled into him, trusting and seeking comfort. His head rested on his chest and Eliot draped his arms under and around him, shifting onto his back. He pressed circular patterns into his hair with one hand, and rubbed up and down his arm with the other. The sky swirled above him and he closed his eyes, too content. Having Quentin in his arms still felt too good, despite everything. He hated the world.

The now-roaring waves and the distant house music almost drowned out Quentin’s gentle voice. " You’re my best friend, El.”

His closed eyes burned and he sniffed. They'd never said that before, not to each other. They felt it, he knew that. But they never _said _it. Because Julia was Q’s best friend. Margo was his.  And yet.

He let the moment rest, for several long minutes. Finally, Eliot pressed his lips to his forehead. Heart swelling, his next words fell against Quentin’s skin, coming without any permission, desperate and ineloquent.

“You’re mine too. You’re mine too, Q,” he said, holding back a sob and staring up at the false sky. “Whatever else I feel doesn’t—I can’t lose you. I _can’t_. But—”

But it didn't matter what he said. Quentin had already passed out in his arms.  Eliot gazed down at his gentle face, mouth dropped open and breath hot on his neck. He brushed Q’s hair back and his fingertips tingled, his heart seized. With a sudden and overwhelming rush of ardor, he desperately wanted to say a hell of a lot more.

He was drunk.

So instead, he closed his eyes and gathered Quentin on top of him. He wrapped his arms around his waist and shoulders, tight as he could. Sleep started to weigh heavy on him, enveloped by the waning and the beautiful man who would never really be his. Because nothing had changed. Not really. The morning would still tell its own story, and the day too. He knew that.

Still, when Quentin’s lips brushed his throat, involuntary in his sleep, the space behind his eyelids turned white. God, he was selfish. He was _so_ selfish.

But he could hate himself in the morning.

* * *

tbc.


	6. Foolish Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, sooooo... I’m never going to make promises about how long it’ll take me to write again. (She said, you know, like a liar.) Plotting issue crept up unexpectedly, but we’re all good now. I think. I hope. Phew.
> 
> Anyway, some angst coming your way for a chapter or two. Then back to the sparkly fluff for the finale, pinky swear. 
> 
> Also, this one is the Mother of All Transition Chapters, hence the absurd length. Call it a triple chapter in one, for the long wait time? Eek. <3

  
** _Cala Jondal & Ibiza Town, Ibiza, Spain, Mid-November 2016_ **

** _*_ **

**(Part Five of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: Eliot and Quentin are Really Good Friends! Shit Happens! Encanto Oculto, Baby!)**

*****

**(Alternate Title: ** ** _You’re_ ** ** Having a Meltdown.)**

* * *

The first boy Eliot ever fell for was Taylor Delatolas. He was the local pharmacist’s son. He was his only childhood friend. He had a loud laugh. He had long eyelashes. He was straighter than an Indiana highway. 

Spoiler alert: It didn’t work out.

Eliot was... never good to him, not in any way that mattered. Which, in retrospect, really sucked because Taylor had always been a genuine soul. He was gentle. He loved Saturday Night Live and Superman comics. He was a track star in high school and patiently tutored an impatient Eliot in Trig, by far his worst subject. And sure, he was a bit simple-minded and far too religious almost all of the time. But he was a lifeline when Eliot had nothing outside his own bloody-handed clawing to the surface, so the feeling—the fall—was inevitable.

They became friends in sixth grade, mostly because Eliot was already an outsider, good and targeted as the queer kid. Taylor, on the other hand, was of Greek and Filipino descent, with a lovely olive skin tone and ridiculous dark green eyes. But all that meant was the geniuses in the aptly named town of Whiteland called him “Osama Bin Laden” more often than anything else, give or take a few other crude slurs. They first bonded in the boy’s bathroom, on the first day of middle school, when a bunch of hicks had beaten the shit out of Taylor and written TERRERIST [sic] on his forehead in permanent marker.

Because humans were truly so good, deep down.

Still, even through their years of friendship, Eliot didn’t recognize his feelings for what they really were. Emotional literacy had never been his strong suit, even back then. Fuck, especially back then. 

He definitely didn’t recognize it for what it was when he was kicking the shit out of him, in that stark and unlit gymnasium, the Whiteland Tigers’ credo overhead in blood red, like a threat. He didn’t recognize it when he stormed into the locker room and tore off Earl Jr.’s hand-me-down gym clothes, the usual taunts in the background nothing but white noise. He didn’t recognize it when he slammed the door to his prison of a farmhouse, the smell of manure and cow’s blood strangling him as he ran up the stairs two at a time. He didn’t recognize it as he curled in the fetal position on his twin bed, all scratchy bedding and a Bible on the rickety nightstand, sobbing until snot poured out his nose. He didn’t recognize it when he dragged himself to school the next day and Taylor forgave him, like it had never happened. He didn’t recognize it even as Taylor forgave him, every time, over and over and over again. 

(Well, almost every time.)

He didn’t recognize it when he started stealing both his dad’s whiskey and his middle brother Ethan’s truck in the middle of the night, chugging and spinning out circles and thinking about Taylor’s eyes. 

He didn’t recognize it when Taylor would bring ice packs to school for him and quietly tell him that he was always welcome at his family’s home. He didn’t recognize it when Taylor’s only response to Eliot’s arch insistence that _ he didn’t need his fucking pity _was a sigh and, “Okay, but the offer always stands, Eliot.” 

He didn’t recognize it when Taylor didn’t show up for opening night of _ Les Mis _ and he ended up passed out in a cornfield, covered in his own vomit. 

He didn’t recognize it when he showed up at Taylor’s house a week into senior year and a day after his dad’s first heart attack. He didn’t recognize it as he begged Taylor to run away with him. He didn’t recognize it when Taylor’s eyes went soft and he took Eliot’s hand and told him that he loved him, but not like that. He didn’t recognize it when he spat on Taylor’s foot and pushed him back, insisting that he wasn’t a… well, you know. 

He definitely didn’t recognize it when he refused to ever speak to Taylor again, when he didn’t say goodbye before he left for New York and magic and _ Eliot Waugh _. 

No. See, the fucked up thing was that he only really recognized it after he met Quentin. 

Of course, Q wasn’t the impetus for reckoning with the memories altogether. Eliot had talked about Taylor before to Margo, during The Trials, by necessity. He told her all about his only childhood friend, about how he had given and given to Eliot, who only took and threw back without fail. Tears in his eyes, he admitted to her that he had never learned how to be a friend or even a good person, and how he always pushed away the people he cared about, because it was easier than admitting his own frailty. 

He told her that Indiana had been a hellhole, fire and salt to every gaping part of himself and he couldn’t—_ wouldn’t _—forgive any of it, even himself. He told her that the person she was drawn to wasn’t real. That he was layers and layers of artifice, covering nothing. Air and dry bones and a brittle heart, pumping poison through everything good that ever came his way.

But Margo—God fucking wish to be her—caressed his bare knees and stared into his eyes to say, “That’s the biggest load of self-involved bullshit I’ve ever heard in my life and I’m from Los Angeles.” 

It made him laugh, a shocked sound, and she kissed him once before telling him that he was good and worthy of love. She said that his heart was the most incandescent sight she had ever seen. It was dramatic as hell and every word out of her beautiful mouth was an absurd thing to say to someone she still really barely knew. 

Nonetheless, it was when he fell in love with her.

Though at the same time, Eliot also never had the heart to tell her that the ropes actually unraveled the second he said, _ I destroy everything I touch_. He had mixed feelings about magic, but he knew it didn’t lie. If the ropes fell off, then that was his highest governing internal circumstance, his utmost truth. His cross to bear and to never burden anyone else with, ever. The only real acknowledgment he made was to privately promise to _ never _ drag his perfect Margo down along with him. And then he made the same promise again, just as quiet, a little more than a year later.

Anyway, the point was that Eliot still never realized that he had fallen so hard for Taylor back in his adolescence. He had always thought of his feelings in abstract terms, like observing a Greek tragedy of his own making from a distance. It wasn’t until that one otherwise inconsequential day, after he had done the thing he regretted most in his life and he was still walking to class with Quentin, still friends with Quentin, still _ with _ Quentin, and Q was babbling on about some nerdy bullshit and Eliot wasn't feeling well but he was _ happy _ and—

A seagull cawed in the distance. The sand under his fingertips burned as morning solidified above his half-asleep form.

Eliot was avoiding reality with his introspective bullshit. Again.

Fuck.

His eyes peeled open, mostly against his will, retinas shocked. He had a terrible headache, and it was only partially from the hangover. As his body adjusted to the equilibrium of wakefulness, he took a sharp breath, the salt air stinging his lungs. Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

The sky above him was muted, a billow of flying cranes in concentric circles, swooping between unseasonable snowflakes. The tiny white sparkles dotted the slowly brightening sky. Against the dark line of the horizon in the distance, the filtered light of the sun shimmered across the water, hearkening morning. Eliot shifted on the blanket under him, lying on his back with an arm tucked up under his head. His other arm was completely detached from sensation, a mess of pins and needles. But the rest of his body was profoundly, achingly aware of a warm Quentin Coldwater curled up on his chest, drooling on his shirt and clutching at him like he would never let go. 

With a shuddering breath, Eliot ran his tongue along the grainy surface of his unbrushed teeth. The sickening sweet taste of alcohol burned sharp and putrid in the crevices of his dry mouth. His head thudded, matching the heavy rate of his unsteady heart. His eyes were crusty and gooey, the edges stinging. He felt like shit. Everything was shit.

Well, except Q’s arm wrapped tight across his chest, fingers gripping Eliot’s shirt like an incapacitated koala. Every nerve ending in his body assured him that was assuredly _ not _ shit. Not even close, if the gentle flips of his heart and the tingling in his giddy feet were any indication, even if they were in stark contrast to the scolding of his rational brain. 

In truth, it wasn’t a particularly sexy sight. Quentin’s face was pressed into the corner of his armpit, smushed and red-streaked. He snored, a gurgling sound, and his forehead was soaked in hangover sweat. It was equal parts sweet and ridiculous, a classic drunken fallout of a wild night. It could have been brushed off as such too, if Eliot squinted hard enough. But not really.

Because, well…

Because there was also the matter of how fucking beautiful Q was. The way the sunrise illuminated his perfect cheekbones, the shadow of his brow reaching down to his lashes, those fucking _ lips _ of his, sending a rush of electricity through his exhausted body at just the smallest glimpse. Last night had doomed him in so many ways and that was what he would have to carry with him, from then on.

So, helpless, Eliot just closed his eyes and breathed him in, giving in for a moment, his nose brushing along his soft hairline. 

Honestly, Quentin smelled terrible, he thought with a short laugh. Like stale smoke and sweet sweat and spoiled whiskey, which shouldn’t have been a thing but somehow was. But fuck him if it wasn’t the best thing in the world. _ Quentin _was the best thing in the world, he thought, punch drunk and pressing his lips to the top of his head again and again. The words he fought every single goddamn day floated to the front of his mind and, selfishly, he let them stay there. He let himself feel them. He let them be real. He let them mean something.

For exactly two seconds. 

Then Eliot blinked them away, as he always did, and opened his eyes. Cracking his neck as slowly as he could manage, he found himself wishing for a freak tsunami, so he would be washed away with the tide, deep into the sea, forever out of his misery. Running his hand through his thoroughly frizzy and disheveled hair, he pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath. They couldn’t wake up together like this. Not after everything. He needed to get Quentin off him. Now. 

So very carefully, he shifted, with Q’s hair bunched against his nose. His angular face slid down against his chest, mouth open along the line of his heart. Eliot breathed in harsh through his nostrils, chest tight. With a rough final kiss to the top of Q’s head, he extracted himself quickly, rolling away, free and bereft at once. His chest was cold and hollow, but it was the right thing to do. It was what he had to do. He settled with a half-satisfied huff, throwing his hand over his eyes. 

It was done.

A breeze passed overhead and Quentin’s arms jerked with a shiver and a displeased snore. Eliot looked away. They needed to face the morning on the same page—the right page—and being cuddly and close would blur the lines of what needed to be done, to preserve that which actually mattered. It was the right thing to do, he reminded himself again, his brain ever stronger and louder than his weak and foolish heart. 

But then the breeze changed to a gust without warning. Eliot’s skin raised into gooseflesh and as soon as he could count them on his forearm, Quentin sat up like a shot. He let out a strangled sound as he heaved forward, his hands splaying out beside him like he was on unsteady ground. He coughed, almost a gag, and Eliot’s heart picked up its speed as reality sunk low.

“What—?” Quentin started to say, sniffing and halting, head swiveling every way it could. But then his crazed eyes softened into light confusion when they fell on him, with a half-smile. “Oh. Um. Hey. Uh—what the shit? Where are we?”

Unfortunately, he would remember. The pills he took had a slight slow-release confusion charm that dissipated after a few minutes upon waking. It was built in as part of the recovery. Eliot wasn’t _ that _ lucky.

“Good morning,” he said, quiet. He gave Q a closed-lipped smile toward the sea and took a deep breath through his nostrils. “We’re on the beach. Still in the Encanto wards.”

“I—” Quentin said, lips quirking down. He shook his head hard, like a wet dog. “I—uh? What? Um. Okay. Wow.”

Eliot stared over at his shoes, still thrown off to the side of the blanket. “How’s your head?”

“Fucking not good,” Quentin said, with a moan, burying his face in his hands. “Shit. Um. Okay. Give me a second to get my bearings, okay?”

A soft laugh escaped Eliot without permission. “Sure. Take all the time you need.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quentin rub the heels of his palms into his temples. He scratched at his nose and shook his head again. He licked his lips once and—

He froze. 

Quentin blinked again, with more intent. He licked his lips again and brought his fingers up, running them along their length. He blinked. He shook his head. He startled backwards, scooting back so the blanket rumpled under his movement. His hand clasped entirely over his mouth and his eyes went wide.

“Oh my god,” Quentin whispered. He slammed his eyes shut, both hands gripping in his hair. “Holy shit. Oh my god, oh my god, _ oh my god_.”

Go time.

“Q,” Eliot said warningly as Quentin scrambled about, looking everywhere but at him. But Quentin ignored him, his mouth wide and wheezing, before he slammed his forehead to his knees and dug his fingers against the side of his head. 

Eliot sighed and tapped him with his index finger. “No. Don’t do that. No turtling.”

Quentin groaned and his forearms trapped his head in a vice. “Yeah, uh, nope. Gonna turtle.”

“Look at me, Coldwater.” Eliot slid his hand along the crook of his neck, gentling his rocking. God, his skin was soft and warm. Shit.

“Just let me turtle,” Q said, groaning and rolling his head back and forth. The words pierced Eliot somewhere deep in his gut.

“Quentin,” he said, patience getting thin and about to snap. He shook his shoulder harder. “Come on.”

“Oh my god,” Q groaned ever the more, wrapping the whole of himself around himself until his voice was muffled and limbs twisted every which way. “I fucking _ mauled _you, Eliot. Oh my god.”

“Well, I’ll always choose a lion to this,” Eliot said, forcibly pulling Quentin up by his arm. He hung lax in his grip, but didn’t fight it. “Q. Seriously. It’s fine.”

But Quentin’s mouth widened into a maw and his head shaking, palm flat on his forehead. “I am so sorry.”

A pained thud ricocheted through Eliot’s core, over the last bleeding wound. “Nothing to be sorry about, Q. Come on.”

“You don’t have to—” Quentin brought his fist to his mouth and bit at his knuckles. He rested his chin on his knees, eyes blazing toward the horizon. “I made an idiot of myself. The first fucking night. Jesus.”

Eliot closed his eyes and swallowed, scratching at the space between his brows. “No, you didn’t.”

Quentin made a high-pitched scoffing sound. “I literally overdosed on magical dancing pills, Eliot.”

The tension in his jaw almost broke his face, but he forced a slight smile. “The spirit was true, even if the flesh was unwilling.”

Q scrunched his face up, confused. “Uh, what the hell does that mean?”

Yeah. Fair.

“I don’t fucking know,” Eliot said, sighing and scrubbing his face with his palms. “I haven’t been this hungover in a long time. My quips aren’t at their most piquant.”

“Well, maybe don’t quip then,” Quentin said quietly, his jaw tense. “Just, like, talk.”

Eliot touched the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth and stared up at the false sky. 

“What do you want me to say?” _ Please tell me what to say. _

He swallowed again. He wanted the sand to swallow him whole. But Quentin didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes closed, trembling under his long lashes. He wrung his hands together and hugged himself closer. Fuck. They were a couple of fucking messes and the elephant was going to crush them alive. But all Eliot wanted was to pretend and pretend and pretend. He couldn’t do that though.

It was Q.

It was _ Q_. 

“So you,” Eliot gulped, “um, so you wanna talk about it then? All of it?”

Quentin nodded, eyes darting along the line of the sky and sea. “I think we have to, right?”

Shit. “Okay.” Fuck. “That totally makes sense.” Goddammit. “It’s the right thing to do.” Motherfucker.

“You sound thrilled,” Q said, a hint resigned under the wryness. Eliot rolled his lip around, before affecting an airy laugh.

“I guess,” he said, choosing each word precisely but without his usual ease, “I don’t think there’s much to talk about.”

Quentin’s wide eyes were going to kill him. “Not much to talk about? Eliot, we—“

“—had a fully-clothed drunken makeout session,” Eliot finished quickly, not at all equipped to hear the end of the sentence from Quentin’s lips. He ran his hands down his face and smiled, tight. “As far as Encanto stories go, it’s pretty tame.”

Quentin’s eyes shuttered, face falling into something too still. “I mean, I guess that’s an interpretation.”

“But a valid one, I think,” Eliot countered, the words forceful as he thought them through. “There’s no reason this needs to be anything more than it was. Let’s really think about the facts, okay?” 

A second wind inflated his lungs, as the spark of rationale flowed through his veins. Really, it was inevitable that this would happen at some point, right? That they would fall into each other’s arms, drunk and out of their minds, when the circumstances allowed for it. And the night before, well, frankly, the circumstances _ demanded _ it. 

They were two attractive men who were both attracted to other men. They were close friends who spent _ so _ much time together, had a natural chemistry between them, and even an occasional flirty dynamic. They had both imbibed a spectacular amount of alcohol, lowering their inhibitions past the point of no return, and they were at Encanto Oculto, where sex magic literally permeated the air.

In the end, when one looked at it objectively, the only surprising part was that it took as long as it did, not that it happened at all. But it didn’t have to _mean_ anything, not unless they gave it that power. They didn’t have to acknowledge it as anything more than a quirk of a charged atmosphere, and the novelty and relaxation inherent in a vacation. Because ultimately, if it were more than that, it would have happened at home, where the variables were consistent. Ergo, chalk it up as a fluke and continue on with their lives, right?

“Right?” Eliot beseeched the stoic Quentin with his eyes, after he made his argument all in one breath. It was sound and compelling, but Q was silent for a few more moments. The speech rested between them, slowly sucking out the oxygen more and more, the longer he went without speaking. But then he ran his tongue between his lips, nodding as he stared off into space.

“Okay,” Quentin finally said, clipped and quiet. But then he cleared his throat and his voice was strong. “I mean, right. Well put, El.”

But he still wouldn’t meet his eyes and Eliot hated himself, so fucking much. Quentin had been drunk out of his mind and now felt like he was… what? An idiot? That seemed to be the resounding theme, upon waking. He clenched his hands into fists, like they could grasp onto the right thing to say, the thing that would make this better between them. The thing that would make Quentin look at him again.

“Hey, come on,” Eliot said, as gently as he could. He put his hand on Quentin’s shoulder. The warmth of him burned. “We’re good. I promise. This isn’t a big deal, okay?”

“Okay,” Quentin said again, still not fucking looking at him. Eliot squeezed and ran his thumb against the soft fabric of his T-shirt.

“Hey,” he said again, ducking his head. Quentin twisted his lips and sighed, staring him right in the eyes, maybe a touch defiant. “What’s going on? I feel like I fucked up? All I’m trying to say is—“

Quentin’s eyes softened as he cut him off, shaking his head. He bit at the air and pinched his nose. “No, El. Shit. No. Sorry. You didn’t—you didn’t fuck up. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just, uh, going to be… embarrassed for a little, that’s all.”

Eliot took in a sharp breath through his nostrils and nodded, thoughts swirling nonsensically. Then he smirked, licking his lips as an idea percolated. He slung a casual arm around his shoulder and rested their temples together. Q stiffened, but Eliot pushed through.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I drank an entire bottle of whiskey, first year? And did four lines of magic coke?” He slid his eyes over, rolling the words around his mouth expertly, sly and sharp in all the right places.

He felt Quentin roll his eyes more than he saw it. “That sounds dangerous.”

Eliot waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Point is that once I was good and blacked out, I ripped an upstairs tub out from its stronghold and down to the middle of the dance floor.” He snorted a little at the memory. “Then I stripped naked, filled it several bottles of gin, got into said tub, and only spoke in seal noises for the rest of the night because I wanted to be _ one with the ocean. _Did I ever tell you that?”

Quentin blinked, a quirk of a smile lifting up his face. “Uh. No. It’s never come up.”

“Hm,” Eliot said, stroking his jaw, performative and cheeky. He bit his lip to hide a growing smile. “What about the time I was so high that when I was walking through the quad, I ran up to the guy I was fucking, wrapped my arms around him from behind, and whispered, _ Blow off class and blow me instead... _and then it turned out to be Fogg?”

That cracked Q’s veneer, eyes jumping at him. “No. No fucking way. That’s bullshit.”

Eliot’s eyes crinkled at the edges and he flashed his most dazzling smile. “If you ever want to make Margo completely piss her pants laughing, just say, _ Unhand me, Mr. Waugh_.”

Thank fuck, Quentin let out an honest-to-god cackle, a cheerful sound against the brightening sky and Eliot’s soul. “Oh my god. You’re ridiculous.”

“My real point is,” Eliot said, grinning into the ground, “that you’ve got a long way to go until you can come close to embarrassing yourself in front of me, alright? And last night was—“

He cut himself off again, his mouth dry and heart pounding. He smiled, ignoring the screaming in his gut, the way his arms ached to hold Q right against his chest, to drown in him. But it wasn’t about what Eliot wanted right now.

“Last night was really good,” he said, softly. He kind of wanted to die, but it wasn’t him about him. It wasn’t about him. Quentin’s eyebrows came together and his muscles tensed under Eliot’s arm. “It’s not like I wasn’t... into it, okay?”

Quentin nodded, a quick movement. “It seemed like you were and then you weren’t.”

Eliot dodged that a bit by sighing, “I’ve never pretended I’m not attracted to you. You have to know that.”

“Right, I do,” Quentin said, shoulders slumping. “But not, like, _ seriously _ attracted to me. I get it.”

Eliot let out a soundless laugh, not sure how to respond to that. He knew it didn’t really matter. But at the same time—

Jesus.

He sucked his lips in and cracked his neck, letting his arms fall down by his side. “At the end of the day, I just don’t think it’s worth fucking up our friendship for an anomaly, even if I’m pretty damn sure it would feel—I think we both know it would be really good. But.”

Quentin swallowed, eyes meeting his for a brief moment before averting again. His voice was hoarse. “Yeah. _ But. _”

A hot spark of anger flared in his gut. He was trying to make this easy, and his approach had been masterfully done. _ Quentin _ was the one making it hard. Eliot’s head hurt and his mouth was dry and his heart felt like it had been kicked in by a goddamn donkey, and he just wanted to go get a shower and forget that the night ever happened. Why couldn’t Quentin give them that? Even if he thought—even if he was still thinking that they could be—he was smart. He had to be reasonable. They both had to be reasonable about this and think beyond one or two days, or a fleeting romantic whim. 

Even if it wasn’t a whim, the idea of trying for real with Q and then slowly watching the affection in his eyes sour into inevitable contempt was a nightmare. He had seen it before, with Taylor and they hadn’t even been together, not even close. But the way his green eyes turned to stone and forgiveness become an unreachable plateau had been unbearable. And the way Eliot had felt about Taylor was a _ molecule _ compared to—compared to—

He let out a ragged breath and shook his head. 

“You’re... too important to me, Q. Your friendship is too important,” Eliot laughed up at the sky, stretching his legs out. “I know that sounds like bullshit, but—“

Quentin held up his hand and smiled, the edges ripping against his cheeks. “You’re important to me too, El. I get it.”

Eliot didn’t feel like Quentin got it. 

But he also didn’t want to push it. He didn’t want either of them to say something they couldn’t take back, now that they were in the harsh light of day. Eliot wasn’t sure he could survive it. So he took a deep breath and tucked Quentin’s hair behind his hair, forcing normalcy, forcing their natural intimacy. Fake it ‘til you make it.

“Um. Right. So you’re good then?” He hated his voice. He was so tired. “We’re good?”

Quentin was silent again, the waves in the distance deafening. But then he grabbed his hand, fierce and firm. Eliot jolted back, shocked, but gripped back, not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“Yeah. Yeah, El. Of course we’re good,” Q said, turning those wide eyes on him. They were soft and sincere. Eliot breathed. “Always.”

On that day, the day he realized that shy and troubled dreamer in Indiana had once wanted Taylor, in all ways, Eliot made a quiet promise to himself... and to Q, albeit unbeknownst to him. He intended to keep it. It was the one good thing he could do. It was all he could do. If there was anything he could give Quentin, it was that promise.

_ I destroy everything I touch. _

Eliot would rather free-fall into the Underworld for a thousand eternities than destroy Quentin. 

So it was time to get up and move forward. Semper fi. Or something.

(He was really fucking hungover.)

“Okay then,” Eliot said, with loud sigh and a shake of his head. He kept Quentin’s hand in his and tugged him upward, pulling them into a standing position. Quentin staggered a bit and Eliot’s heart pinched, swooping with instinctive worry. But he pushed past it. “Now that that’s out of the way, we can deal with the most pressing issue: We smell like death.”

Quentin snorted and nodded. “Yeah.”

Eliot braced his hands on Quentin’s shoulders, the light of day haloing over them, soft and pastel. “We need showers.”

“Yeah.”

“More sleep.”

“Yeah.”

“A hangover potion.”

“Fuck yeah.”

“Food.”

Quentin winced. “Agree to disagree.”

Eliot smirked, opting to ignore his stubbornness for now. “So let’s walk our asses back to the damn house and leave our drunken whatever here on the blanket. What happens in Ibiza, stays in Ibiza. Fair?”

Again, Quentin just looked at him, inscrutable as ever, before offering back tilted smile. “Fair.”

Eliot returned it, running his hands down the length of Quentin’s arms and taking a single step into his space. He felt his brow pinch, like his heart. Time to ask the most pertinent questions, much as they panicked him.

“How are your legs?”

Quentin swallowed and blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Fine. They feel fine. I’m—they’re fine.”

Eliot couldn’t think about it more than that. His bones felt numb in thinking about it. So he smiled, and focused on moving forward. Moving forward, like a song or whatever. He was really hungover. So he clapped him on the back, not too hard, and literally and physically moved them forward.

“If you need to lean on me when we walk,” he offered, keeping his voice light, “don’t hesitate, okay?”

Eliot was happy to provide anything Quentin needed, always. Obviously, though, that would have been a confusing thing to say right then. Everything he thought and everything he felt was confusing. No need to put that burden on Q.

“I won’t. Or I will,” Quentin closed his eyes, telegraphing headache pain. “I mean, I _ will _ lean on you and I _ won’t _ hesitate.”

Eliot laughed, because he couldn’t help it. He still didn’t let go of Q’s hand. All in time. “Good. Then come on. Allez.”

But Quentin didn’t move. He stared down at feet, Adam’s apple bobbing like the slow tide of the Mediterranean. His hand was limp in Eliot’s and his hair blew in the breeze, mussed and layered in an artless tangle. He licked his lips and shook his head.

“Eliot. I—I, uh, I’m—“ Quentin clenched his jaw once and let go of his hand, leaving everything cold. He brought his palms up to his eyes. “I’m really sorry if I scared you.”

Yeah. He didn’t want to talk about that. “It’s fine. Let’s go.”

“I shouldn’t have taken so many pills.”

Eliot let out a frustrated grunt without meaning to. He threw his hands up and laughed. “Obviously, Q. It was dumb as shit. But there’s nothing more to say about it, so let’s _ go_.”

On cue, Quentin’s face fell and he wanted to scream. Honestly, sometimes the kicked puppy bit got fucking old. But guilt crawled its way up his sternum regardless and Eliot closed his eyes, pursing his lips. He counted to three and opened them again, smiling.

“Q. It’s fine,” he said, touching his shoulder ever so gently. Quentin relaxed. “Just—not again, okay?”

“Yeah. No, lesson learned,” Quentin said, hands up in surrender. “Promise.”

Eliot meant to smile and beckon him forward. But looking at Quentin, standing there, wobbling on his legs and face pale, eyes red and unfocused and all he could think about was—

He couldn’t escape it. It was closing in on him. It was _ catching up with him _. 

(Fuck you, Margo.)

There was a storm brewing in his chest, all the fucking time, and he always kept it at bay, he always kept it all at bay. But in the enchanted air and the fucking weird tension between them and his desperation for everything to be okay, always okay, it was right there. He was frozen. He was still. His breath was shallow and he couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel anything.

Eliot took one step forward and staggered, and warm hands were on him.

“Hey, whoa.” Quentin’s voice was so far away, even as he could feel his heart, right there. “You alright, El?”

What?

No.

What? 

Eliot spoke aloud, but he couldn’t hear it. “What did you just say?”

“I said—“

_ “You alright, El?” Quentin leaned on the bar table, holding his face between his knuckles, eyes crinkled devilishly. Eliot put down his paring knife with an affected sigh and glared at the intruder. _

_ “I’d be better if you let me focus,” he said, squeezing a freshly cut orange slice so the juice flew in a perfect arc onto the brat’s grinning cheek. “Never interrupt a master at work.” _

_ But Quentin was in curious toddler mode, picking up all of the bar tools and holding them to the light, thoroughly wrecking the perfectly organized system. He was damn lucky he had that face of his or Eliot would have been very cross. Instead, he just sighed again, louder and long-suffering. But he let himself smile, small and hidden, as Q futzed about, shockingly bull-in-a-china-shop for someone whose whole thing seemed to be sleight of hand and other small magics. _

_ “Why the fuck do you have tweezers?” Quentin narrowed his brows to a single point and picked the delicate pincers up, clacking the ends together. “Can’t you use magic?” _

_ Eliot couldn’t believe he had to explain it again. But he apparently did, as he bent back over the glass, squeezing two tablespoons of juice as a finishing touch. “If I use magic, then I can’t call it a handcrafted cocktail.” _

_ “Ah. Right, sure, and disappoint the clamoring masses.” _

_ Eliot’s hands paused over his work, Quentin’s smirk burning him whole and alive. His heart rate sped up and he ran his tongue over his teeth, a flush rising high on his cheeks. He could practically feel his pupils expanding, like anti-drug commercial. _

_ “You know what,” Eliot said with a low chuckle, pinning the far too self-satisfied Q with all the weight of his considerable gaze, “I don’t think I asked for any commentary.” _

_ But Quentin’s grin just got bigger, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Drunk grad students, pounding the door down, begging for more _handcrafted cocktails_ that take eight minutes to make.” _

_ “Would _ you _ like to be a drunk grad student?” _

_ “Sometime in this century, yeah,” Q said with the world’s most innocent, buoyant head nod. He was in a fucking mood. It was adorable. It was terrible. _

_ “Then stop distracting me,” Eliot said, like there was any world where that was a possibility. Ah, well. Such was life. Such was being friends with Quentin. Weakness acknowledged, two separate boxes, et cetera, all that. _

_ He had his shit on lock. _

_ Eliot scanned the room, keeping an eye out for Jasper or Ronald or one of his to-be-named boys. He was definitely going to have to blow off some steam, at some point. But for now, the pickings were slim and the whole side of his body burned with the delicious closeness of Quentin, who had decided to busy himself with his paring knife, throwing it up in the air and spinning it around, with some slight magical assistance. He vaguely registered that it was a bad idea and a responsible bartender would put a stop to it. But, well, no one had ever accused him of being responsible. _

_ Besides, the drink was ready and perfect. Placing a small curled fiddlehead fern on top, he shook it lightly toward the _ literal Peter Pan toddler holy shit _ who was now juggling three of his eggs that were actually meant for the pisco sours, not his entertainment. The ice clinked and clanked against the crystal and Quentin blinked up, with a tiny smile. _

_ “Drink it, you ungrateful little shit,” Eliot said, leveling him with his coolest glare. Quentin’s fingers brushed against his as he took the glass, which wasn’t something that affected him at all. People touched. He raised his eyebrows once in a dull facsimile of a toast, as Q took a long sip. _

_ He licked his lips, face sheepish. “Okay, it’s really good.” _

_ “Mhmm.” Of course it was. _

_ “Sorry,” Quentin said with a lazy shrug. He took another sip then and nodded his head back and forth, like he was reconsidering. “Kind of a cold medicine aftertaste though.” _

_ “Bullshit. Give it,” Eliot said, pride roaring in his chest. He snatched the drink back and took a precise gulp, letting the liquid roll over his tongue. Fuck. There was definitely a piercing and sweet edge of mint and myrrh, definitely unappealing to the virgin palate. “It’s the Fernet. It’s _ slightly _ unbalanced.” _

_ Quentin jutted his chin up and clicked his tongue, a huge fucking brat. God. “I really expect more from this establishment.” _

_ “It’s fine,” Eliot said with a bright, poison smile. He kept the drink just out of reach, high above his head. “I’ll restart.” _

_ As expected, quick hands started reaching up the length of his arm, broad shoulders pressing into his. His stomach flipped, but he laughed as Quentin kept fighting upward, as though Eliot didn’t have a good half-foot of height on him, not even considering his arm span. He was such a little engine that could. _

_ “Holy god, no,” Q said, hair flopping everywhere. “I was just giving you shit.” _

_ “Nonsense,” Eliot said with a sniff, rattling the drink high in the air. “I refuse to serve my Little Q a second rate cocktail.” _

_ “Fuck you, I want alcohol,” Quentin grunted, starting to jump up to grab the drink, which just made Eliot laugh more. “Here, at least lemme chug it before you get all obsessive again.” _

_ The laughter died and the drink went higher in the air. “That’s _ blasphemy _ —“ _

_ “Oh my god, would you quit—“ _

_ “Just let me remake it, it’ll take me five minutes. Ten, tops—” _

_ But when Quentin finally caught a good jump and caught his wrist in his grip, they struggled for a few moments before the hindsight inevitable happened, and Eliot’s bright white silk shirt and light gray vest were drenched in an orange-amber-green liquid. _

_ He popped his lip out from his teeth and glared down from his nose, eyes burning. “And you’re dead.” _

_ Quentin looked genuinely remorseful, at least. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair, before readying his hands into a tut. “Shit. Sorry. I’ll get it.” _

_ “No, no magic,” Eliot said, sighing for real, pulling his shirt out from his chest with meticulous fingers. “Silk’s too fine.” _

_ “Okay, uh, then here—” Quentin said, after he reached to the side and grabbed a cocktail napkin. He dipped it in a carafe of water and stepped closer to Eliot, making small, wet circles on the vest. _

_ It was so absurd that Eliot actually laughed again, stopping his motions by resting his hand on top of his. “Do not rub it into the fabric, you madman.” _

_ Quentin folded his face into a thoughtful frown, before looking up at him, mere inches away, all wide-eyed and earnest. “Well, it was my fault. What can I do?” _

Kiss me_, Eliot’s hindbrain unhelpfully supplied as his heart sped to a gallop. Fuck, he was so lovely. Why was he allowed to be so lovely? His hand reflexively curled around Quentin’s fingers and he could have sworn Q’s eyes darkened when he did, pupils wider and lashes hooded. _

_ So he did what he always did. He blinked past it. He pulled Quentin’s hand off his chest and rolled his eyes, shaking his head with a click of his tongue. Like he was deigning to accept help from a plebeian, he hand waved toward the small cooling system behind him, shucking off his vest as he did. _

_ “Club soda’s down there,” he said, laying the vest out on the flat surface of the prep table. It was one of his favorites. Simple gray with a hint of white dotted embroidery. Quentin was damn lucky he had a soft spot for him. “Get me one of the mini bottles.” _

_ “Aye, aye, captain,” Quentin said, voice wry and unaffected. As he bent down and opened the container with a _ pop-fizz _ , Eliot stared down at his red suspenders and white shirt with a discerning laser focus. The suspenders had been out of the splash zone at least, but the shirt was a mess, possibly unsalvageable. Quentin was fucking goddamn lucky he had a soft spot for him. Jesus. _

_ As he was considering stripping down shirtless right then and there—you’re welcome, everyone—the door to the front of the Cottage slammed, and the sound of clunky boots stomping on the hardwood grabbed his attention upward. He rolled his eyes at the sight of Kady Orloff-Diaz, with her raccoon eyeliner, eighties hair, and always unpleasant attitude. Usually, he liked when people wore bitchiness like a perfume, but she had no style, no finesse. She was angry and coarse, more bitter than biting. Not his cup. _

_ Plus, she had fucked Julia the second she and Margo had taken a break before Encanto Oculto. Not that he ever judged sexual exploits, but it had honestly been kind of slimy. That, and she and Penny were always dicks to Quentin, for no goddamn reason. It had been too many years of too much bullshit for him to put up with that, especially when it came to one of the best people he’d ever known. So in all, Kady wasn’t actually a welcome sight and never would be. He made sure she knew it too, in every small way he could, all the way down to her ridiculous booty shorts. _

_ Unsurprisingly, she ignored Eliot. But more surprisingly, she turned her frantic eyes toward Quentin, fingers tapping arhythmic on the sides of her thighs. She cleared her throat and rubbed the top of her head. _

_ “Um, hey,” she said, scratchy-voiced and jittery. “Coldwater.” _

_ Quentin had been standing and watching Eliot, holding the club soda until he was tapped in. But at his name, he blinked and stared at her, bald confusion on his face. “Hey, uh… Kady? _

_ She cleared her throat again, like she was nervous. “Can I talk to you for a second?” _

_ “Me?” Quentin literally squeaked. Eliot kept working, like the conversation wasn’t happening. But he was attentive. _

_ “Yeah. I need—um,” Kady sniffed and looked anywhere but at Q. “I need some help." _

_ He could literally feel Quentin jumping up into Helpful Rescue Pup mode. “From me? Is everything okay?” _

_ Kady nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “Look, I know we’re not friends.” _

_ Okay, he was in. Eliot let out a harsh little laugh and blazed his eyes up, putting his clothes over to the side. He folded his arms and stared down at her from his full height. _

_ “Understatement,” he said, the words fierce behind his teeth. Who the hell did she think she was? At his intrusion, Kady snapped a glare at him, like she wanted to say something cunty, but instead she dipped her eyes down. _

_ “Maybe,” she conceded. Then she looked back at Q, eyes rapidly jumping around and lashes getting wet. “But I think you might be the only who will—I need someone who understands—who won’t fucking—who won’t—“ _

_ Of course, Quentin was a sucker. He rounded his way past the bar table and wiped his hands on his pants legs and stepped closer to her, eyes warm and concerned. “Whoa, Kady, hey. Yeah, of course I’ll help you. What do you need?” _

_ Eliot was not a sucker. There was something _ off _ about Kady, and so he snapped his fingers together, twisted them once, and stretched them out into a frame. As he looked through, he wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or disappointed. God, it was such a burden to be brilliant and _ right _ all the goddamn time. _

_ “What the shit is going on with you?” Eliot sighed, laborious and overwrought. The miles they must walk, honestly. “You’re all warded up.” _

_ Kady snapped, roaring way out of proportion. “Don’t push this, Waugh.” _

_ “Push what, exactly?” He smirked, lips twisting. Her face fell, every line twitching and spasming. Her arms were shaking. _

_ “Just leave it alone,” she said, voice cracking over a whisper. She was a terrible actress. “Please.” _

_ “God, what bullshit chaos magic did you use to patch this together?” He was still looking through the frame and he meant it. The colors burned and the math barely made sense. Numbers swirled around her head, laughing like a hatter. “It hurts to look at.” _

_ Luckily, bullshit magic was easy-to-dismantle magic. He twisted his hands up and around, and Kady’s eyes widened into what actually seemed like sincere panic. _

_ “No, please, don’t—“ Kady begged, holding her hands out. Quentin stumbled back as Eliot broke the ward, and immediately, a cascade of books—at least fifty fucking books, all the ones Fogg had accused _ Eliot _ of stealing—fell in heavy sheets of fluttering pages and thudding leather around them. _

_ Eliot snorted, slitting his eyes like the insult he was about lodge. _

_ “You little snake.” _

Eliot was shaking and Quentin’s hands were on his face when he blinked back to the beach, and he almost leaned forward in his delirium. But he didn’t because despite what most people believed about him, he could always rely on his self-control. No matter what else the world ripped from him, it could never take that away. It could die trying. The whole damn world could burn.

But Q’s fingers were still moving softly against the grain of his stubble and he felt his resolve start to crumble, unraveling like a spool deep in his heart. 

_ Quentin_. 

He leaned into his touch, so slightly, and his knees sunk into the slopes of dry sand. It was only then that he realized he’d fallen down at some point. Shit. Embarrassing. He stole a glance up at Q, whose eyes were glued on him and wrecked with worry.

He almost laughed. They were quite the fuckin’ pair.

But whatever sound he actually made obviously didn’t register as amusement, because Quentin’s eyebrows fell further. 

“El,” he said, brushing his thumb along his jawline and it took all his strength not to hum out an even more embarrassing moan at the touch. Fuck, his hands were perfect. “What’s going on?”

Eliot forced himself to jerk back and finally formed that smile he’d been aiming for from the start. He shook his head and a few stray curls obstructed his vision. Jesus, he had forgotten what a wreck his hair was. So much for the aesthetic. Fuck.

“Dehydrated,” he said, shaking his head to fully bury the memory back where it belonged. He scratched at the side of his mouth and stood, brushing off his pants. “Did I mention that I’m hungover?”

Quentin rose in tandem with him. He didn’t totally look like he believed what Eliot said, but he also didn’t push it. He was a good friend that way.

“Yeah, me too,” Q said, stretching his tongue out. “I think after a shower, I’m going to hole up with a computer and read Fuzz Beat all day. Dire straits.”

“Eh, I think it’s a great idea,” Eliot said with a wink as they finally started walking forward, the ease of conversation carrying him more than his leaden feet. “Then you’ll finally solve the burning mystery of which _ Friends _ character is your soulmate.”

“I never take the quizzes,” Quentin said, affronted. “It’s obvious data mining.”

He rolled his eyes over a fond smile. “Sure.”

“Wait, do _ you _ take the quizzes?”

“I should live in Madrid, I’m a nice hunk of rich and nutty gruyere, I’m a combination Slytherin-Hufflepuff,” Eliot nudged him, relishing his frowny face, “and my soulmate is Rachel.”

Quentin glared, huffing condescendingly. “You probably have so many third-party trackers on your ass now.”

“Oh, no!” He gasped, hand on his chest. Quentin smacked his arm and Eliot laughed, warmth blossoming in his chest. They were fine. It was all fine. Thank god.

But as Q opened his mouth to retort, his words disappeared with a soundless and complicated shift of emotions across his face. He smiled, stretched across his face, and cleared his throat before stepping slightly ahead of Eliot.

“Let’s get going,” he said, voice perfectly normal. But his legs moved too quickly, his back toward Eliot. “If I don’t lay down soon, I’m gonna barf.”

Right.

Yeah.

It was all fine.

* * *

**Encanto Oculto**   
** _Day Two_ **

Eliot sat at a white linen covered table, nursing a glass of ‘96 Dom. The stars sparkled on his tongue, as they were wont to do. Lost in his own quiet mind, he watched the tiny fizzing bubbles dance upward to their own oblivion. Most didn’t know, but the original monk had never actually said that, the famous quote associated with the brand (“Come quickly, I am tasting the stars!”) It was just a great marketing line, which sincerely made him admire the turn of phrase even more. All the world was nothing but marketing. Eliot was nothing but marketing.

He drummed his fingers along the embroidered edge of the tablecloth, pristine and intricate. He twisted his neck to check on his date, still pacing on his cell phone a few meters away. Fuck, he was bored. He was itchy. Everything was still off-kilter. He stretched his arms out, his muscles still tired from his shitty night’s sleep and still aching, too heavy and wanting. 

He took another sip of the drink, putting it back down with too much force. The glittering gold sloshed about and the bubbles tried their escape act all over again, exploding at the surface, gasping against the air. He could relate.

Eliot filled the inside of his cheeks with air and tugged his phone out of his pocket, scrolling through his messages. He stopped and started several times, rereading the ones that led him there, fingers trembling over the touchscreen. He had done nothing wrong, he reminded himself. It was the smart decision. It would have been stupid not to go, for so many reasons. It was fine. It was all fine.

He opened the message screen again and the words looked like a language he didn’t speak, until his brain rearranged them into something sensible. But they still didn’t really make sense. He didn’t recognize them as belonging to him, even as they stood stark against the white backlight.

* * *

** _SMS with “Idri (encanto, good shoulders + ‘beefcake’ :p)”  
_ ** _ 11/19/16, 12:01 PM _

Buenas tardes, Eliot.  
Are you free for a late lunch today? Around 2?  
There’s a break in my schedule.  
I hoped to spend it with you. 

Nice to hear from you, Idri  
Sad to say, but I have a prior engagement

Not surprising.  
You strike me as a busy man. 

Indeed  
For you, I could manage to cut out early  
Meet at 3? Champagne fountain?

It’s a date!

Excellent 

* * *

Of course, Eliot hadn’t had a prior engagement, but he knew the game.

(He fucking hated the game, he realized as he ran his finger around the flute’s delicate stem. When had that happened?)

(Don’t answer that.)

Anyway.

So.

To be clear? 

Eliot did not agree to a lunch date with Idri because of what happened in the breakfast nook that morning. That would have been petty and Eliot was never petty. 

Besides, he and Quentin were fine. They were great. They were best friends. There was no reason to be petty or upset or feel like his heart was going to fall right out of his chest, because that wasn’t how you _ felt _ when it came to your best friend. They were moving forward and this was what that looked like. They were both entitled to moving forward and so they were moving fucking forward. End of story.

So what if Quentin had barely spoken to him again on the walk home, claiming to be too nauseated. Eliot had been nauseated too. It made sense. He probably just felt like shit. God knew Eliot had felt like shit and he hadn’t done half the dumb shit Quentin had the night before, so it was probably all _ catching up with him_, like things apparently did. That was all. Nothing more.

In the present, Eliot finished the champagne and poured more. Finished that glass too. Hair of the dog always worked like nothing else, even better than a potion. Or maybe that was just his alcoholism.

(Ha, _ ha _!)

When they arrived at their lovely thatched hut along the water’s edge, they stepped onto the stretching patios over the shallow water, before pulling out the glass and stone door. When he did, magic poured into his veins. The small, rustic hut transformed into a lush, modern suite, ideal for recovery. And so they kept walking in and Quentin kept silent, but just as Eliot had started to rationalize the world into equilibrium again, everything screeched to a halt. 

Sitting at the quartzite kitchen island, dressed in her silk black dress and soaked to the bone was Alice, with her hands folded in front of her and blue eyes dazed as she stared straight ahead. She looked like one of those creepy Madam Alexander dolls, unmoving and porcelain.

“Alice,” Eliot said, another wave of nausea hitting him. Or maybe it was guilt. Or both. He had completely forgotten about Alice. “Holy shit, are you okay?”

She startled, like she wasn’t expecting anyone. But her eyes lit up and she scrambled off the stool, walking toward them at her most serious _ click-clack _ pace. She smiled and reached out toward them, her hands almost flailing in their excitement. A smile formed on Eliot’s lips, but as he reached for her—

She completely bypassed him, like he wasn’t there, and grabbed Quentin by the bicep.

“I’ve been waiting up for you, Q,” she said, voice low and gravelly and what the actual fuck? “I really, really need to talk to you. Now.”

Quentin blinked, his face twisting in surprise. “Um, okay? Is everything—good?”

Her face was like sunshine. “_Yes_.” Then it fell. “I mean, no. I mean, I don’t know.” Sunshine again, glowing and burning bright, right on Q. “I just—before I can know, I need to talk to you.”

A cold dread twisted Eliot’s chest and his fingers ached for his flask. He rubbed his lips together, dry like kindling. He reached for a smart comment, something to involve himself. But his fuzzy, jumbled brain failed him.

“Can it wait?” Quentin said, running his fingers over the bridge of his nose. But Alice tightened her hold on him. “It’s been a long night and—“

“No. It can’t wait. I’m too—everything is too—“ she bounced her knees and let out a little squeal, tugging him along. She still didn’t look at Eliot. “Please, Q.”

He sighed, his resolve physically wavering as his body fell forward, like a wobbling Jenga tower. “Look, okay, just let me—“

“No, it can’t _ wait _,” Alice said again, pulling him forward as he yelped. Eliot was frozen, everything happening in slow motion. What the fuck? “It won’t take long. Well, actually, it might, but I don’t care.”

“Jesus, Alice, let go,” Quentin said, trying to free himself in vain. “You have a goddamn viper grip.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

Eliot leaned against the island and watched her pull Quentin into the hallway, speaking in rambling nonsense. Q tried to pull back, protesting every step of the way. But then, something changed, when Alice stopped and looked him dead in the eye, as they stood in profile. She leaned up and whispered in his ear for what felt like an eternity, and his face circled through a hundred emotions. Her hands never left his arms, her fingernails sliding against his bare skin. 

When she pulled away, she stared up at him, big-eyes and pleading, biting her lower lip. For a half second, Quentin’s eyes darted over to Eliot’s and the eye contact would have staggered him backward if he weren’t already propped up. But before Eliot could catch his breath, it was over and Q stared back down at Alice, serious as anything. 

Then he nodded and led Alice to his bedroom, with his hand on the small of her back.

Which was also around the time Eliot decided his flask was a child’s plaything—because bottomless or not, it was filled with a goddamn _ cocktail_, with _ mixers _—and so he stormed over to the liquor cabinet and drank gin straight from the bottle. 

Anyway, long and truly irrelevant digression aside, the only reason Eliot agreed to a lunch date with Idri was because Idri was an attractive man and he was single and he offered to talk about his work and they were at Encanto Oculto. Hedonism and debauchery and lust and informational interviews. Encanto Oculto, baby. Et cetera. All of them could do whatever the fuck they wanted, including Quentin and definitely including Eliot. So he did and they could all suck on that.

(Yes, he was being dramatic.)

(Yes, he knew Quentin wouldn’t—that there was no reason to believe that he and Alice were—that it wasn’t _ characteristic_. He knew there was probably something else going on, maybe even something he should wonder about beyond the screaming in his brain.)

(But shit was _ weird _ right now, okay? It was fucking weird.)

(Fuck.)

In any case, no matter how he had ended up on his date, the reality was: He was getting restless. Idri had been on the phone for the past twenty minutes, pacing in circles on the edge of the seating area. Eliot understood as much as anyone that duty occasionally called, especially when it came to the question of hospitality and soirees, a most important burden to bear. But at this point, honestly, the King of Encanto Oculto was being a bit rude. 

So Eliot adjusted his collar and stood, the chiavari chair clinking against the invisible barrier above the sand. Plastering on his most charming smile—without a hint of impatience—Eliot walked over to Idri and tried to grab his attention, with a tiny wave. But instead, he was greeted with a hunched over back and a desperate sigh, completely unacknowledging him.

“Please don’t use that tone with me,” Idri said, quiet and deep into his phone as he spun around. His face was crumpled in pain and Eliot faltered back onto his heels. “This is not—what do you _ want _ from me? You always do this. You always do this.”

Oookay. Eliot grit his teeth and sucked in a sharp breath, wincing. That sounded like... not his business.

“It’s my work, I can’t just—” Idri’s large palm plastered over his face. “Yes. Fine. Go. I’m busy myself. I have a date.”

Idri spat the last word out before he pressed down on the red circle, thrusting his phone into his pocket with a snarl. For a moment, he stood there, shoulders heaving and Eliot contemplated slowly backing away, and maybe leaving Idri to whatever the fuck was going on with him that he didn’t really want to touch with a ten foot pole. But then, the Encanto King straightened up, took a deep breath, and looked up at him with warm brown eyes, nothing but light and kindness.

It was infectious, he had to admit.

“Eliot, my deepest apologies,” Idri said, a gentle smile crossing his handsome face. He pressed his hand on his lower back, guiding them back to the table. “That was unbecoming.”

“It’s fine,” Eliot said with a hand wave. Who the fuck was he to judge? “I hope everything’s okay.” 

Idri let out a rueful laugh as he pulled out Eliot’s chair for him, quite the gentleman. “Do you have any extended family?”

“Hm, I suppose,” Eliot said, slow and slender. Something about Idri made his language stand tall, with good posture. He sat down, keeping his gaze steady. “But I speak neither to nor of them.”

Idri’s smile was like a crescent moon. He poured them two more glasses of champagne and held his glass high. “To sound policies.”

They clinked and drank, and Eliot convinced himself there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“So how was your first full day?” Idri asked, placing his napkin on his lap, far in advance. It was elegant. “Everything you hoped?”

Er. 

Uh.

“It was certainly eventful,” Eliot said smoothly, smiling primly. He swallowed another sip of champagne and snorted at his own private little joke. “Surreal.”

“I hope you mean that in a good way,” Idri said, full lips twitching into a slight frown. Eliot pressed his hand to his heart and clicked his tongue.

“Why, that goes without saying,” he said, all gentility. Then he tacked on a teasing: “Your Grace.”

Idri’s face melted back into that gentle warmth, and he beckoned over a waiter, to order another bottle. He asked for a special offering of shipwrecked champagne with a wink, because he was a man of both style and flair. As they drank, Eliot noticed his hand was covered in artful rings, all with precious gemstones, and quickly learned that they all had a story. He was a fantastic story teller. He made Eliot laugh, for real, more than once. He was gorgeous. He was the perfect man. 

You know, on paper.

His eyes closed and a dull headache loomed behind his brow.

(_He couldn’t believe it. It was Quentin, laid underneath him, pupils blown wide and smile wider as he tangled his fingers in his curls and surged up, kissing him. _

_ “Eliot,” Q breathed against his lips. He pulled on his shirt, desperate, until they were both on their sides, curled into each other, every part of them touching. “God, _ Eliot. _ Don’t stop. Never stop, please. Please, baby—”) _

“—does that sound like something you’d be able to handle?” Idri asked, his very nice face smiling genially. 

Eliot drank deeper. 

(Fucking god, fucking hell, fuck everything, _ fuck_.)

He wasn’t even sure they were memories or fantasies at that point. The two were doomed to be blurred forever and that was—not a great reality for his social life. So he did what he did best in an emotional crisis, and drank, and drank, and drank.

And then, because his life was so goddamn fucking fantastic, he of course saw Quentin and Alice walk into the vicinity, speaking quietly together, their heads almost touching. Still together. Sitting down for lunch, eyes locked on each other.

Together.

Eliot hands jittered at his sides and his knee bounced so hard under the table that it almost knocked over the glasses. But he kept his face cool and calm, even as he couldn’t quite manage to take his eyes off Quentin. The tips of his ears burned as Idri kept talking about the menu and explaining to the way it worked (all the food was actually blocks of cheap tofu, with a strong illusion magic and physical charms to make them look and taste like anything desired, blah, blah, basic shit) but all he could see was Quentin.

And then Quentin’s big wide eyes right on him, burning away from Alice and suffocating him. His heart slammed against the back of his throat and he remembered everything.

He wanted to remember.

_ Kady was crying and sputtering nonsense, as the small crowd started to form around her, curious murmurs providing the white noise soundtrack. _

_ Behind her, Margo and Julia kept respectively hard and cautious eyes on her, making sure she didn’t beeline for the door. Next to Eliot, the rubberneck Todd Bates bounced on his feet, inappropriately excited by the spectacle. The only person who could get anywhere near Kady was Quentin, who was doing his best to hear her out. Because he was a sucker, as previously established. _

_ “Jesus. Here, have a drink,” Eliot finally said, as Kady kept clutching at Quentin’s arm, sobbing at him nonsensically about how she _ hadn’t meant it _ and she _ didn’t have a choice _ and something about her mom, for some fucking reason. But even the King Rambler himself couldn’t parse it, if the confusion in his eyes was any indication. _

_ Not one to be ignored, Eliot impatiently shook the high ball in her face. She didn’t even look at him when she grabbed it, but at least she did. She chugged the whole thing in two long swallows, her throat expanding and spasming as she did. Then she wiped the back of her mouth with her hand and stared down at the floor, the effects settling with ease. _

_ “Calm now?” Eliot asked with the gentlest look of concern he could muster. She nodded and he leaned on his elbows toward her, cocking his head just so. He smiled. “Now, tell me why you did this, hm?” _

_ Kady sucked in a breath and started speaking without hesitation. “I’ve been secretly working for a Hedge Witch coven leader named Marina Andrieski, a former Brakebills student. I’ve been providing her with books and other materials for the past year, with increasing levels of complexity in what she wants.” _

_ She said it all quickly, smooth and easy as anything. But as expected, as soon as she was done, she slammed her hand over her mouth. Her eyes opened and closed once, before sliding over to the now-smirking Eliot. She swallowed, heavy, and her lips twitched. Anger burned in her eyes and she choked out a fierce growl. She threw the glass at the wall, shattering it, before she rounded on Eliot, eyes furious and hands sparking. _

_ “You fucking _ asshole _ ,” she snarled, pushing his shoulders back once. Static electricity lit up his skin but he just smirked all the sharper. _

_ “What’s going on?” Quentin asked, head bopping back and forth like a bird. He frowned and grabbed the crook of Kady’s elbow as she started charging at Eliot all over again. “Whoa, okay. Just—uh, tell us more about Marina.” _

_ “She’s the Head Bitch in Charge, the most powerful Hedge Witch in the city, maybe the state,” Kady said, easy breezy again. Her jaw clenched and she punched Eliot’s arm. It would leave a fucking bruise, fucking bitch. She laughed like another sob. “She’s a sociopath and a psychopath and—god_dammit_, Eliot!” _

_ Overdramatic, Kady threw herself into a ball on the floor, trying to rip her hair out of her head unsuccessfully. At Quentin’s wildeyed look of confusion, Eliot merely shrugged and sipped his own drink. _

_ “No mixologist worth their vodka has a bar stocked without truth serum,” he said, wiping his hands. In an instant, Q’s wild eyes went hard. _

_ “Jesus, El.” _

_ But behind the disapproving Quentin, Julia nodded her wholehearted approval. “Smart. Quick thinking. Nice work.” _

_ “Um,” Todd laughed, high-pitched. He held a finger in the air. “Isn’t truth serum, like, _ super _ illegal?” _

_ Everyone ignored him. _

_ “I’m not saying I’m opposed to using it on her, because fuck a bitch,” Margo shot out, crossing her arms. “But isn’t it kind of a drastic step? Just send her to the dean so he stops blaming us for this shit. It’s not our problem.” _

_ Quentin’s eyes flew to Margo, harder still. “The dean? Are you kidding? _ That’s _ the drastic option, Margo.” _

_ “It was her choice,” Bambi argued brilliantly, rolling her lip around between her teeth. “She knew the risks when she got into the black market spell biz. Pretty easy math.” _

_ “She just said it wasn’t a choice—” _

_ Margo shook her head, curls bouncing everywhere. “We always have a choice, Q. But some people are weaker than others.” _

_ “Fuck you, you unbelievable cunt,” Kady snapped, still not getting up from the floor. Her argument was incredibly well thought out. It made Margo smile. _

_ “Bambi, I’m with you,” Eliot said, turning on his most authoritative voice. It made Quentin’s jaw tick, but he’d get over it. “But I figured it’s better if she’s compliant.” _

_ “That’s—that’s so fucked up, Eliot,” Quentin said, turning his wide eyes on him. “It’s not like she killed someone.” _

_ “Hedges are no fucking joke, Quentin,” Eliot said, not wavering. “You know I’ve met them. The high level ones are corrupt as shit. I wouldn’t be surprised if people have died or worse because of the information she provided, even indirectly.” He let out a barking laugh and glared down. “Is that right, Kady?” _

_ Kady wrenched herself up and stood. Her eyes were red and her face pale. “I don’t know. Give me an antidote, now.” _

_ “Yeah, okay,” Eliot said with a laugh and a bright smile. Then he turned away from her and looked back at his other friends. “Let’s just get her in a bind.” _

_ “Ooh! I’m really good at those!” Todd said with a happy grin. Everyone ignored him. _

_ “No,” Quentin said, stepping in front of Kady. “No, we figure something else out. We talk to her first, but after the serum wears off.” _

_ Eliot stared at him like he’d grown a penis out the side of his face, and not in the sexy way. _

_ “What possible purpose would that serve?” God, Quentin was the fucking worst sometimes. “Then we can’t trust anything she says. I’m telling you, the books are not the end game here. The more accurate information we have to give the dean, the better.” _

_ “Why do you give a shit about this?” Quentin shot out, asking maybe the first relevant question. He even noticed Margo’s eyes falter for a second, like Q had pointed out something to her too. But Eliot ignored it. He was on a roll. _

_ “Do you know how often the dean has called me into his office to talk about the missing books?” Eliot pursed his lips. “He thinks it’s me, Q.” _

_ “So this is about revenge?” Quentin snorted, disbelieving. “Because you were mildly inconvenienced a couple times? They wouldn’t kick you out and you know it.” _

_ Before he could respond to that, Julia raked a hand through her hair, shaking her head. She stepped forward and took her best friend’s arm. “Q, Eliot’s right. It’s probably not just the books. That’s foundational shit. So what we need to do is go to the dean, so he can _ find _ this Marina person—“ _

_ “No,” Kady said, wrenching out a sob. “No. You can’t. She’s a _ psycho_.” _

_ Margo sneered. “You’re the one who was working for her.” _

_ “Quentin,” Kady said suddenly, turning the force of her green eyes to the now silent Q, who was standing with his hair in his face, frowning in thought. “Quentin, please. You know how important Brakebills is. It saved me, Quentin, I didn’t think I would ever find—“ _

_ “Don’t fucking talk to him,” Margo snapped. She turned a sharp finger back toward the wavering Quentin. “And don’t fall for it, Q.” _

_ “I mean, but she’s on truth serum,” Quentin said, more to himself than Bambi. “She can’t lie. It’s real.” _

_ Julia tightened her grip on his arm. “She may very well feel that way, Q, but what she was doing was… who knows what kind of shit she unleashed out into the world?” _

_ “Yeah, I know, but—“ Quentin worries his brow and stared upward, clearly torn. Julia shook her head and put her hand on his face, tilting his chin down so he looked at her. _

_ “Hedges are basically junkies, with no mastery or control,” she said, unyielding. She tucked a stray piece of hair behind Quentin’s ear and sighed. “They could hurt themselves or others, Niffin out, create untold chaos. We have to cut it off at the head, okay?” _

“Untold chaos,” _ Kady laughed, harsh and biting. “You always had a penchant for dramatics, Julia.” _

_ Julia ignored her and beseeched her best friend with her dark brown eyes. “Bigger picture, Q. It’s part of our responsibility as classically trained Magicians.” _

_ Quentin stood there, with the weight of every eye on him. He frowned, staring off into space as he calculated the circumstances. Then he nodded to himself, extracting his arm from Julia. He took two steps forward and stood next to Kady, like a human shield. He cleared his throat and tipped his chin up, stalwart. _

_ “If you want to bind her and take her to the dean,” he said slowly. Then his eyes met Eliot’s, ablaze. “You’ll have to go through me.” _

Eliot gripped the table and stared down at his perfect fingernails. That wasn’t exactly what he was going for, in terms of remembering .

(Shit.)

“Eliot?” A big hand covered his and he jumped. Idri’s eyes were concerned and his eyebrows were pulled together. “I asked if you had any questions?”

Eliot licked his lips and cleared his throat. “About?”

Idri laughed, but it was humorless. “I’ve lost your attention. Are you serious about wanting to learn about my work? I’m only bringing the subject up because I took a look at your Regalo and it was… truly masterful work. But if it’s only a passing fancy, then I’m certainly happy to socialize, but—“

“Yes. I mean, no. I’m very interested,” Eliot said quickly, shaking cobwebs out of his head. He was sincere, even if his head was way too fucked up to be thinking about something as stressful as his goddamn career right now. Fuck, of all the times. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’m very interested. After effects from a wild night, that’s all.”

Idri grinned at that and restarted his spiel, telling Eliot all about the lush, glorious work he did with the most important socialites all over the world. And Eliot nodded where he was supposed to, and laughed where it was prompted, and pretended with all his might that he couldn’t still feel Quentin’s eyes on him.

(He drank more.)

* * *

**Encanto Oculto  
** ** _Day Three_ **

_ **SMS with “Margo”**  
_ _ 11/20/16, 9:22 AM _

Get up fucker  
I’m at the beach  
&making us waxing appts

reminder in my phone, set to go off in 2 hrs:   
“bambi needs waxed”  
LOVE the initiative baby

Fucking Julie said Brazilians are “unfeminist”  
So I’m getting one   
Then rubbing my pussy in her face

that’ll show her

I know  
11?

mimosas + sunbathing first pls?  
shit is weird, need margo time

???  
What the fuck?  
Weird how?

ugh no talky  
more drinky  
all bambi

hey you there?

Yeah  
Ok sounds good <3

are you in the gold bikini?  
want to match

Duh bitch

* * *

The lights in the house were all off when Eliot stumbled in from the Bacchanal. It was the only other event that Bacchus hosted, typically in his own skin rather than the human form he usually wore. Large horns jutting out from the side of his head, draped in grapes and vines. Nude, obviously, with a total horse dick as the centerpiece, down to the fur growing out like bramble. His sprite-like face was covered in a beard and he had hair down to his shoulders, teeth gnarled into their original state, from aeons ago. His fingers were longer, his body harder, his voice like music from an enchanted lyre. It was grotesque and enticing all at once, awe-inspiring in its _ wrongness _to human sensibilities. 

All the better to revel with, my dear. 

In years past, Eliot had been a main attraction in his own right, chugging from his own enchanted porcelain carafe, laid out on the banquet for any and all who wished to take. He and Margo, holding each other and laughing, letting the night flow over them like a river of magic and booze. They were some of the most pleasant memories in his entire life, if not strictly the _ happiest. _But then, it had only been recently that he had ever even considered happiness as something to… consider. 

(Whatever. He was drunk.)

In any case, that night was different than the other years. Margo and Julia had stayed to the side, by themselves, laughing and whispering. Alice wasn’t there, because she seemed to be avoiding Eliot for some goddamn reason, off on her own adventures that no one would tell him about. Which, whatever. He didn’t care. At least that time, she hadn’t dragged Q off with her.

But then, at the same time, Quentin had looked like a terrified rabbit the whole time, wringing his hands with wide eyes as he chatted with an unamused satryr, who was clearly trying to fuck Q, even though Q had no idea or inclination. That image had implanted itself into Eliot’s brain like an angry mosquito, sucking blood and rational thought without letting go, until he was drained and unable to have any fun at all. There was a time he would have found it all so funny. He missed that time with all his heart.

Hence, a quick stop back home, for some happy pills and a flask filled with something potent, before he returned in all his glory, a fool proof plan. But mice and men and all that, because just as he was mixing up his most special concoction, the main door slammed and a skittering figure wove its way through the darkness, huffs of frustrated air pouring out as a leather messenger bag hit the floor. 

Pausing over his work, Eliot let the spoon clang against the metal shaker. Quentin stood in the hallway, face pale and eyes dark, almost haunted. Eliot’s heart started crawling his way up his throat, hands twitching at his sides. He cleared his throat, a soft friction of sound, so he didn’t startle the rabbit in front of him.

True to form, Q jolted, but stared up, eyes adjusting in the darkness. He frowned, a million complicated things crossing his face. They hadn’t talked much, since…

Well, since.

But here they were now.

“Hey,” Quentin said, wrapping his arms around himself, like a hug. Like comfort. The edge of Eliot’s eye twitched. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you know,” Eliot said, indicating his drink prep. He picked his tools up again and resumed his work, blithe smile on his face. “Just getting ready to go out. Again. Needed more supplies.”

Quentin stretched a smile across his own face. It looked painful, his face still not regaining its color. He scratched at the side of his eye with his thumb and shook his head, hair falling haphazard.

“Right,” he said, hoarse. He laughed, strained and faltering. “Yeah. Well, I won’t keep you.”

He gave Eliot a false little grin and turned on his heels, heading toward his room. And Eliot… Eliot wanted to fucking scream at him. This was ridiculous. They were friends. There was no reason for anything to be this fucking difficult between them. They had cleared the air. They were good.

“Hey,” Eliot called after him, just as Quentin started to walk away in earnest, shoulders slumped almost to the ground. “You okay?”

Q’s hands went up into his hair, tugging hard. He shook his head and his shoulders started to tremble. And Eliot’s spidey senses went off, focused in on every movement he made. Suddenly, he wasn’t so convinced that his weirdness was about him at all.

“Yeah,” Quentin said, still turned away, completely unconvincingly. “Yeah. I’m fine. It’s nothing. Not a big deal.”

Shit.

Eliot sighed, entirely abandoning his work. He took a few slow steps toward Quentin, approaching carefully, until his hand was softly wrapped around his shoulder. At the touch, Quentin stopped shaking, but his eyelashes went wet and oh, god, Eliot would kill anyone who put that look on his face. But in his experience, it usually wasn’t _ anyone _. It was brain chemistry.

“You can talk to me,” Eliot said softly, rubbing his thumb back and forth along the edge of his shoulder blade. “What’s up?”

Quentin stared down at the ground, his flittering hands wrapping around each other in a soft frenzy, like if he kept touching every inch of skin there, he would find grounding. It took everything in Eliot not to wrap them in his own, to bring them to his lips and quiet their movements with all the feeling in his heart. 

He probably wouldn’t have helped anyway. 

So instead, he waited. He gave Q the space he always needed, more than he ever needed anyone’s touch. Certainly more than he needed _ Eliot’s _ touch, especially now, of all times.

Finally, Q swallowed and glanced up at him, his brown eyes rimmed in red and far too flat.

“I just—I had to leave the party early,” he said, bringing his thumb up to his lips. He bit at a jagged part of his fingernail and sighed. “Um, my headspace isn’t good— and I just—I kind of made an ass of myself. It’s whatever. Don’t worry about it. Not your problem.”

Eliot gave him a soft smile, like Q hadn’t just pierced a knife through his heart. “I’m sure you were fine.”

“No, I really wasn’t,” Quentin said with a wet laugh. He deflated under Eliot’s hand, like a spent party balloon. “I’m—I’m just gonna go lay down.”

Yeah, except that was the last thing he needed right now.

“Q,” Eliot said, tightening his grip. “Come on.”

“You’re heading out,” Quentin said, shaking his head, darting his eyes away again. “You don’t want to deal with my bullshit.”

_ That’s all I want _, Eliot thought violently, shocking himself in its ferocity. He didn’t say it though. Obviously. 

“You’re my guest,” he said, settling on the stupid rules he created for himself. The easy answer. The easy out. But when Q tensed, he sighed, aiming for something closer to the heart of the matter. He ducked his head and glued his eyes on Quentin’s, not giving him space to run away. “But besides that, you’re my friend and I won’t be able to have a good time if I know you’re locked away in a depression hole. Now, will you fucking talk to me? Please?”

Quentin’s tense jaw nodded and he licked his lips. “Yeah, uh. I mean. It was fine, at first. I was drinking wine and talking with, um, Kevin? I think his name was?”

“The sartyr?” Eliot clarified and Quentin nodded. “Yeah, Kevin.”

He also had a twin brother named Darryl. They were good guys, if a bit overeager.

“Right,” Q said, snorting. Eliot wanted to bottle his tiny smile before it disappeared. But Quentin’s face went sour and morose all over again, faster than he could even blink. “Anyway, as we were talking, I, uh, kind of spaced out and then I started thinking about the fleeting nature of our time on this earth, like, even if or especially when you’re, uh, having an amazing time and you feel untouchable, right?” 

Eliot nodded slowly, right as Quentin threw his head back, staring up at the ceiling. He rolled his eyes up to his brow, sarcastic and self-loathing. “So—so—so, uh, then fucking naturally, I started thinking about Cocoanut Grove.”

Not the worst thing. Palm trees and rolling hills. Eliot grinned. “That sounds nice.”

But his smile made Quentin let out a laugh, a pained and harsh sound. He slammed his eyes closed, ticking his neck like it was about to snap. “Um, not really. I don’t mean, like, an actual coconut grove. I’m talking about the Cocoanut Grove nightclub.”

“Okay?” Eliot asked, his brow pinching. Quentin sighed, running his hands down his face. 

“Yeah, uh, it was a nightclub in Boston, way back in the 40s,” he said, pulling away and starting to pace in a small circle. “So, basically, one night, a young soldier unscrewed a lightbulb in his booth so he could kiss his date, in mood lighting.”

What the fuck was he talking about?

“Okay…?” Eliot narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips, really trying his best to follow. Quentin blew his hair out of his eyes and laughed again, entirely without humor. He kept pacing, circling. It made Eliot dizzy.

“Anyway, the soldier left without replacing the bulb and a sixteen-year-old busboy was told to screw it back in. It was his job, you know, that kind of thing,” Q said, like that helped explain anything. “But the lights were dim and he struggled to make it fit, because he couldn’t make out the details of the, like, mechanism or whatever. So, uh, he lit a match to see and then—” 

Quentin turned around and stared at him, eyes watery and hands flying in the air. “And then five hundred people died.”

Jesus Christ.

“Okay,” Eliot said, pulling himself up to his whole height. Take charge time. “That’s very sad. But not actually relevant to anything. You know that, right?”

But Quentin was caught in his cycle, staring down at nothing. “And—and so then I started _ talking _about the Cocoanut Grove nightclub fire and everyone told me that I was bringing the vibe down and I just… kept going? And it was not, um—”

Oh, sweetheart. Eliot’s heart tightened and he stepped into Quentin’s space, forcing his mess of feeling and affection into something like friendship.

“Come here,” he said, wrapping his arm around Quentin and pulling him close. “Q, it’s okay. Let’s go sit down, yeah? I’ll get you a drink and some food.”

“No,” Quentin shook his head. He laughed into his hand, wet and too high-pitched. “Can you just—like, talk to me?”

“Of course,” Eliot answered automatically. He pulled him in tight, ready to sacrifice his first born to take this burden away from Q. He would do it. He didn’t give a shit. Fuck a first born. “Let’s navigate to the couch then, yeah?”

Quentin buried his face against Eliot’s collarbone, mumbling into his fabric. He tried really hard not to enjoy it, especially when he sounded despondent and lost. “So many people died, El. They were just trying to have fun. The soldier was in love and happy and trying to capture a moment of joy, and he—he had no fucking idea what he was setting in motion, right? And, god, that poor kid, the _ guilt _, I can’t even imagine the fucking guilt—”

God, he felt things so intensely. It was beautiful, except when it did this shit to him. 

Heart hurting, Eliot ran his hands through Quentin’s hair and softly said, “It was a long time ago, Q.”

But that made Quentin snap his head up again and snarl, “Just because something happened a long time ago doesn’t mean it _ doesn’t matter_, Eliot.”

Noted. New tactic needed.

“Okay. Okay. I hear you,” Eliot said, placating. “But we need to move right now, okay? Get you out of this spiral. Let’s go.”

Nodding and limp, Quentin let himself be maneuvered, until they were settled, flopped on the giant pink couch. For what felt like hours, he was silent, staring down at his knees. Eliot knew Quentin had asked him to talk to him, to say something, anything. But because he was _ fucking worthless _, Eliot was at a loss. He didn’t trust himself to say the right thing. He didn’t trust himself not to say the absolute wrong thing, in his desperation.

He hated that it was Q who ultimately broke the silence, and he hated what Q had to say even more.

“I think I’m just gonna head back home.”

Eliot startled, fingers tensing like the back of a haunched cat.

“What?” He demanded, sharp. “Why?” No.

Quentin shrugged, inward and sad, in that way he could be. He closed his eyes and his voice came out monotone. “There’s just—there’s nothing here for me.”

_ You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. _

It wasn’t an unfamiliar mantra, beating steady against the hollow parts of his skull, bouncing around like a child’s ball. It regularly mocked him. But this time, as he watched Quentin—head-to-toe in black and looking so small against the grotesque magenta of the ostentatious couch—Eliot thought it may strangle him.

_ You fucked up. _

“We’re all here. Your friends are here,” he said, pushing past his whining, vicious internalized horseshit. This wasn’t about him. It was about Quentin’s broken brain and goddammit, he had a responsibility to try to do right by him. “There—there’s a lot to do. It doesn’t all have to be the bacchanal, Q.”

“Sure, because that’s what everyone wants to be,” Quentin said, not opening his eyes. “The depressive in the corner who needs special You’re Great Just the Way You Are activities, so he doesn’t have a fucking breakdown. Real fun.”

He rolled his eyes. Couldn’t help it. “That’s a bleak interpretation.”

“Maybe. But Margo was right,” Q said, still not moving. “I don’t belong here.”

“Okay,” Eliot said sternly. “Margo _ never _fucking said that.”

“She may as well have.”

With a repressed groan of frustration, he raked his hand through his hair and sat up, shaking at Q’s shoulder. Enough.

“Quentin, look at me,” he said. And Quentin, stubborn asshole that he was, firmly opened his eyes and looked in the opposite direction. Jesus. “Look at me, Q.”

Cooperating only to be pointedly uncooperative, Q snapped his eyes over with grit teeth. “_What_, Eliot?”

He looked at him for a few long moments, running the metal of his warm rings along the edge of his chin. Quentin’s brain was fucking with him. Of course there was no easy fix, but Eliot knew he could help snap him the fuck out of it enough that he didn’t run home with his tail between his legs. Quentin had once told him that he was always trying to find secret doors, to escape when shit got too rough, too raw. 

And Eliot—Eliot knew _ exactly _ what that felt like, even if he didn’t have the balls to admit it at the time. 

But he could help now though. 

(Well, he could at least try to help now.) 

He let out a slow breath and put his hands in his lap, folding them delicately. He brushed off an imaginary piece of lint from his trousers, looking down as he spoke. “Do you remember what my one unshakeable policy is?”

That alone jolted Quentin out of his anger and into confusion. He scrunched his nose, eye cocked. “Uh. _ Always accept an offered mint_?”

“No. Well, yes,” Eliot said, frowning a little and rocking his head back and forth. “Okay, I have two unshakeable policies.”

“_Never answer a cop knock _?” Now Q was smirking. Thank god.

Eliot glared at him half-heartedly, unable to help the gentle smile that gave him away. “Do you want my sage wisdom or not?”

“I mean,” Q sighed, undulating his hand in an _ On with it _ motion, his own face softening into Eliot’s favorite wryness. “I guess it can’t hurt.”

Fuck, his was the brattiness that launched a thousand ships. Eliot’s heart lurched and bent, in a reverent bow. But outwardly, he clicked his tongue and ruffled his hair.

“When I get like this,” he said indicating Quentin, who immediately rolled his eyes and shot him an incredulous glare. “I’m serious. When I get like this, I ground myself in what’s actually happening around me. So my policy is that when life fucking sucks the goddamn life out of you: Focus on your senses.”

“‘Focus on your senses,’” Quentin repeated, monotone. Then he chuckled. “Yeah, uh, that’s actually a pretty common—you know what, never mind.” He cleared his throat and snorted, eyes sliding back over. “For the record, that’s definitely not something you’ve ever expressed before.”

“I assume everything I think and feel manifests itself automatically in others,” Eliot said, leaning back and stretching his arm along the length of the couch. He gave Quentin a quick wink. “You know, through osmosis.”

Quentin scrunched his face up and nodded, holding back a laugh. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

“Seriously though,” Eliot said, sliding his hand down to squeeze his shoulder tight again. “Go through the five senses. Right now. What do you see?”

“El,” he said, with a raspy intake of air. “The thing is, I’ve done shit like this before and it’s not—”

“Oh, just indulge me,” Eliot said, nudging him.

Quentin blinked up at him, eyes unreadable. But then, his face fell into a slow smile.

“Yeah,” he said softly. He rolled his eyes and fell back against the couch. He sighed like he was giving into something he’d been fighting for a century. “Yeah. Alright. Fine.”

Eliot smiled.

“What do you see?” He asked again, but then quickly put his hand up when Quentin’s face furrowed into overthinking mode. “First thing that comes to mind.”

“A dark room,” Q said, a little bratty. But not entirely.

Eliot elbowed him. “More specific than that.”

Quentin frowned, looking down and to the side. He ticked his eyebrows up, running his hand along the velvet surface below him. “Um, this fucking ugly pink couch?”

“Before we continue, thank you for saying that,” Eliot said, deathly serious. “It’s hideous and whoever designed it should be tried for war crimes.”

“Why does it exist?” Quentin looked sincerely baffled.

“A philosophical question for the ages,” Eliot said with a grin. “But the practical answer is that the house takes all our tastes into account. I think this travesty is Alice’s doing.”

That made Quentin smile, wide and genuine. “It does have kind of a, uh, Lisa Frank vibe.”

Eliot’s stomach tightened, cold and sick. The words _ Hey, so, speaking of, what’s going on with—? _ danced mockingly on the tip of his tongue, ramming their angry heads against the back of his front teeth. It would be the perfect transition. Quentin would probably be happy to let go of this activity. He would probably answer honestly, because Quentin almost always answered honestly. He’d find out everything, if he wanted to know. But he didn’t really want to know.

(Bawk, bawk, bawk. Et cetera.)

So instead, Eliot cleared his throat and licked his lips once. He focused. “Okay. Good work.”

“Thanks, it was really difficult,” Quentin said with a low eye roll.

Eliot flicked the back of his head, but ignored him otherwise. “What do you hear?”

“A blowhard who thinks he’s a therapist?” Quentin said, all flat sarcasm, with only the tiniest hint of an impish twinkle in his eyes. Brat.

“Well, I did revive your surprisingly mean sense of humor,” Eliot said, head tilted. Then he smiled, shiny as he could. “So you’re welcome.”

The twinkle grew to real mischief. “It’s why you like me.”

“Eh,” Eliot lifted his lip, while waving his hand as he looked away. But when Quentin elbowed him back for his troubles, he broke and laughed, eyes catching on Q’s before he could stop himself. 

For a moment, the world fell away and all he could see was the gentleness in his eyes, and that tiny teasing smile, and those parentheses dimples, and just, fuck, _ Quentin _ . A rushing heat, sparkling electricity, bubbled from his core up to his heart. It felt like the first time he realized he could fly—terrifying and unnatural to everything he had ever known before, to everything that should have been, yet so undeniably _ right_, down in his soul.

(What the hell was he doing? Why was he fighting this?)

(He couldn’t remember.)

Quentin broke the moment though, looking down at his hands and clearing his throat. In an instant, it all came back. He was fighting it because _ He’s a fuck up and Quentin deserves better_. Right. Of course. Duh.

“No, um, I guess,” Q said, pushing his hair back, “I hear the ceiling fan? Is that a good answer?”

Eliot tucked his hands into his pockets. “No good or bad answers.”

Quentin glared back up. “You literally told me I gave a bad answer, like, two minutes ago.”

Touché. He shrugged as he dug around his pockets for a cigarette. Couldn’t find one. Shit. So instead of responding directly, he just continued, not looking at him as he considered all his options for obtaining nicotine without walking away. 

“What do you smell?”

(He could call a cigarette or his case from his room. But he couldn’t quite remember the path of the hallway, which meant he’d end up with a lot of soldiers littering the ground after they inevitably slammed into the walls. Pain in the ass.)

(But fuck, he wanted a smoke. Needed a goddamn smoke.)

(Maybe Q had a cigarette? Would that be weird to ask?)

“Um, I smell your cologne,” Quentin answered, softly, threading his hands together. The cigarette was forgotten as the hairs on the back of Eliot’s neck stood up. 

All brain functions halted, like a screeching subway that lurched the passengers forward. His heart restarted, fast and jittery, like he’d been hit with the paddles. He stared straight ahead, forcing himself into composure. His fingers tingled.

“Which smells like citrus,” Quentin said, still soft. But now was looking up at Eliot through his lashes. “Like, a musky citrus. Is that dumb?”

Eliot ran his tongue over his teeth and swallowed. His throat was dry. “Ah, no. Not dumb. It’s, um, a special blend for tropical—doesn’t matter. But, yeah, you have, um, a strong olfactory system.”

Smooth, Waugh.

“There’s, like, um, jasmine or sandalwood or something?” Quentin said, leaning in closer to Eliot’s neck, murdering him. He sniffed in a soft line up from his collarbone to the nape, without touching. “Both, maybe. Plus, orange, of course.”

Eliot’s pulse pounded, and he tried not to swallow again. It would be too deafening. But his throat was so dry and all his nerves were shaking, overheating. He nodded, like his head was detached from his body, floating in its movement.

“But it also smells unique, I think,” Q said, pulling back just enough to catch Eliot’s eyes. They were dark in the angled light, but something glimmered there. “It smells like you.”

His breath hitched “Which is what?”

“I couldn’t describe it,” Quentin said with a smile, eyes hooded. He reached up and grazed his fingers against the line of Eliot’s jaw. Automatic, he shifted closer to him, his nose grazing Q’s forehead.

Eliot whispered, unthinking, dipping his head down. “What do you feel, Q?”

Their foreheads touched and his eyes closed. He felt Quentin’s hand travel slow up his chest and rest over his heart. Which, god—fuck. 

_ Fuck. _

Yeah. He wasn’t strong enough to resist that. 

So Eliot tilted his head down and captured his lips under his own. In less than a beat, Q made a choked off sound and threw himself into Eliot’s lap, parting his lips and sliding his tongue against his. His hands frantically wrapped around his face, knocking him back with his intensity. Eliot caught himself on his arm, like a lever, but Q kept kissing him harder, pushing him down with all his strength. He whispered his name against his lips once (“God, Eliot,”) and straddled him, hands fumbling for the buttons on his shirt.

_ Baby, _Eliot thought, slow and desperate and delirious. He slid his fingers through Quentin’s hair, gentling him and pulling him closer, softer. They sunk into the couch and each other at once, Quentin on top of him, still undressing him. He heard that same vague, underwater protest from his rational brain, but he kept moving, kept feeling, without taking heed. One hand slid up and under Q’s shirt, palm splaying wide and desperate over the lines of his back muscles. The other got to fast work on Quentin’s belt, tugging it off with precision, without ever taking his lips away from him. But then Q started kissing down Eliot’s now-bare chest, with intent, and the world disintegrated in a universe-expanding inferno. 

His eyes closed and his head rocked back against the ornate couch arm. _ Holy motherfucking goddamn shit. _He tangled his fingers into his hair and smiled under his fluttering lashes at the trail of perfect fire. He even gasped when Quentin lightly bit at the soft space above his hip bone, his perfect hands getting to fast work on his belt and buttons, palming slowly at the tight seam of his pants like it was something they’d done a million times before. 

“Fuck, baby,” Eliot said, out loud, wild and trembling. He slowly opened his eyes and stared down the line of his body, at Quentin tugging down his trousers and reaching for the top of his briefs, like every movement was precious, sacred. “Fuck.” 

Q’s eyes pierced up at him, pools of heat and something… terrifying and beautiful and—_ fuck _. He smiled a little and Eliot’s heart jumped up into his mouth, full of all the longing he had felt for so fucking long. He couldn’t feel anything but Quentin. He didn’t want to feel anything else ever again, for his whole life.

But of course, because the world was a terrible place that hated him with every turn, that was when the worst hit him.

_ Eliot was done. _

_ He was fucking done with idealistic bullshit. He was done with Quentin’s stubborn bullshit. He was certain there was more going on in the room around him—he could still hear Margo and Julia, could still feel Todd’s mouth breathing, could still see Kady trembling—but his tunnel focus was all on Q. _

_ Stupid, stupid Q. _

_ “Sweet Christ, Quentin,” he growled, snapping his fingers once. “Get out of the way. She’s dangerous.” _

_ But Quentin didn’t budge, arms folded, and he repeated the same annoying question again. “Why do you care?” _

_ “Because of everything Julia said!” Eliot shouted, ready to use his telekinesis to knock him out of the way. This was getting ridiculous. They had all made a decision and Quentin thought that his ill-conceived principles meant that he could unilaterally derail it? That wasn’t how it worked. That wasn’t how any of this worked. _

_ “Bullshit. You’ve never been a moral authority ever,” Quentin accused, eyes still firm and stance firmer. “How the fuck is this different?” _

_ Was he serious? He knew better than anyone. “Because I know how exactly dangerous magic is without—“ _

_ But Quentin shook his head, cutting him off by shaking his hands out. He was obviously just as agitated with Eliot as Eliot was with him, but he sucked at keeping it composed. _

_ “That’s what _ I’m _ saying. It’s why sending Kady off to get her memories erased or worse with this—this energy still in her is messed up and—and dangerous in its own right, in bigger ways,” Quentin said, his forehead creasing into a frown. “Do you really not see that?” _

_ “I see a clear danger here and now,” Eliot said, with a lackadaisical little shrug. He brought his drink up to his lips and finished it. “I’m not bothered about some hypothetical.” _

_ “Well, fine, that’s your choice.” Quentin licked his lips and stared off to the side, tucking his hair behind his ears. “But I’m not going to—“ _

_ Eliot’s patience snapped, like a glowstick. He lit up, red and bright. “Why are you being so fucking stupid about this?” _

_ He definitely expected the kicked pup look, the retreat, the _ Okay, um, sorry, okay, forget it, sorry _ . Eliot had taken advantage of that expectation, planned to use it to get the shit done and over with. Yeah, yeah, he was a bad person, whatever. Ends justified means; if not by charm, than by force; all that. But Quentin didn’t fulfill that expectation. Instead, he met Eliot measure for measure, his hands at sides in tight fists, relentless. _

_ A strange, unfocused backdoor part of Eliot was incredibly, inappropriately turned on. _

_ “Why should we get to choose?” Quentin’s voice was a whisper, but not delicate. “Why should Brakebills get to choose?” _

_ The heat of the moment dissipated in his frustration and Eliot nearly laughed. “Because that’s how it _ works _ , Quentin.” _

_ “So _ question it, _ Eliot,” he retorted, precise and hard, eyes widening and jaw setting. _

_ Okay, yeah, it was still hot. But for once, there were actually more important matters at stake. _

_ “You want to change things structurally, fine. Write up petitions to your little heart’s content,” Eliot said, voice low and pointed. “But you don’t do it in the midst of shit like this. There are already systems in place, Q. Maybe they’re imperfect, but now is not the fucking time.” _

_ Quentin gentled then. He sighed and held his hands out, looking to the ceiling like it would have the answer for him. Meanwhile, Kady was turning gray, her lips hard and white and her eyes so bloodshot, it looked like she hadn’t slept in over a week. She looked like a fucking zombie, and not in the sexy way. _

_ “Look, Kady made a mistake. But people make mistakes, that’s, like, what we _ do _ , as a species,” Quentin said, shaking his head and pushing his hair back. He pressed the heels of his palms into his temples and started pacing in a small circle. “We fuck up and we do shitty things to each other, but, uh, mistakes—mistakes are how people can actually learn do better, El. But they can’t do better if they’re not even given the chance to. Taking away Kady’s memories, taking away her agency, is not the answer.” _

_ A tiny pulse of light traveled into his ventricles, nearly rendering them apart in Quentin’s incandescent hope. It was intoxicating, even in the worst of circumstances. But closing his eys to its power, Eliot snuffed it out, remembering himself. _

_ He bit his lip and laughed, airy, before his voice hissed out hard. “That’s a very sweet, very fucking naive sentiment.” _

_ There was the kicked pup look. He had almost missed it. Normally, nothing made him feel more like shit, but Eliot was _ done. _ Quentin stuffed his hands into his pocket and nodded, over and over again. He laughed, high-pitched. _

_ “Right. Anytime I disagree with you, it’s because I’m fucking naive.” Quentin’s voice was as sharp and off-kilter as his was low and grounded. “Not because I could actually—” _

_ Enough. Eliot looked past Quentin, like he wasn’t speaking. This wasn’t Debate Club. _

_ “Kady, tell us what else Marina asked you to do,” he demanded of the walking corpse. She was shaking. “Let’s see how deep these adorable little character-building mistakes actually go, shall we?” _

_ Kady’s mouth opened, a dry and cracking sound. She coughed once and closed her eyes, croaking out a single, entirely irrelevant sentence. _

_ “Fuck… you… Eliot.” _

_ Quentin’s eyes went wide and he flipped around, hand on her shoulder. “Hey, uh, don’t fight it. You can’t—you can’t fight truth serum.” _

_ She coughed again. It was supposed to be a laugh. “Watch… me…” _

_ Kady sneered and held her middle fingers up right at Eliot. They shook so hard, they would barely stand upright. But he got the message. She really was quite the charmer. _

_ “Listen to Quentin. You could Niffin out,” another voice said from behind them. It sounded like Julia. Again, Eliot had tunnel vision, so he wasn’t totally sure. “Kady, come on.” _

_ Kady cough-laughed again and her hands covered her eyes, trembling and trembling. She was whiter than a sheet of paper, than Eliot’s shirt once was. “Fuck... off… Julia.” _

_ “Should we maybe take her to the infirmary?” Another voice asked. It was annoying one. “She doesn’t look so good.” _

_ “Shut the fuck up, Todd.” That was one was Bambi. He knew that. “She’s fine. The grown-ups are talking.” _

_ He loved her. But he couldn’t snark with her right now. His focus was elsewhere. Namely, on how Quentin was wrapping his arm around Kady and trying to make gentle eye contact with her, searching for her cooperation in that stumbling, disarming way of his. _

_ “Kady, please,” Q said, brow wrinkling a thousand times over. “Just answer Eliot and then we can figure this out.” _

_ She shook her head, death white and almost translucent, and shaking harder and harder. “I’m not giving... this asshole… anything.” _

_ “I get that. I really do. But you could hurt yourself,” Quentin said as he took a deep breath and swallowed, trying to find the right words. “No matter what your answer is, Kady, I promise you, I will—“ _

_ That was when something shifted. Kady’s whole body went still and Eliot could feel magic vibrating off her in waves. It pricked fear in the deepest part of his gut, but Kady just took a single step forward, right out of Quentin’s grasp. Of course, because it was _ Quentin _ , he reached out again and she stormed around, her movements stiff and labored, but determined. _

_ “Stop touching me,” Kady said, suddenly clear, suddenly urgent. Then, like she used all her strength, she threw herself away from him, toward the daybed, eyes dancing all around the room. Her hand went up to her chest. She breathed like she was hyperventilating. _

_ “Okay, I’m sorry,” Q said with his hands in the air. “But Kady—“ _

_ Her hands were sparking again. Small yellow trails of lightning. It was twirling, blurring. She didn’t even seem aware that it was happening. Eliot brought his eyebrows together and reached out to tap Q on the shoulder. _

_ “Quentin,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Get behind me.” _

_ But Q was still mad at him, so he glared and stepped further away from him as he stepped closer to Kady. “Fuck off. No. She needs help, Eliot, and you’re obviously not going to do anything to make it better.” _

_ “Q, do you see what I’m seeing?” Julia’s voice asked, urgent. “I think we all need to take a minute here and calm down.” _

_ Quentin ignored her, stepping closer to Kady again, nearly touching her. “Kady, please, if you just answer, the energy will dissipate and then—” _

_ Kady growled, an inhuman sound. The sparks got brighter and brighter. Her core glowed, red and yellow and piercing cold. “I won’t. I can’t. Fuck truth serum. Fuck you. Fuck off.” _

_ He held his hands up and moved one toward her shoulder, about to touch her again. “Hey, I get it, I do, I really do, but—” _

_ Eliot realized what was happening as it was happening. None of it mattered. He hated himself. He hated Kady. But it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. His hand reached out, strong and desperate, along with the terror in his voice. _

_ “Quentin, get behind me _ now! _ ” _

_ But it was too late. _

“Fuck,” Eliot winced, hissing and scrambling upward, knocking Quentin back. Fuck. _ Fuck _. “Um, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” Quentin’s quiet voice asked, and Eliot could feel his hands on his arms. He couldn’t bear to look at him. And he had no idea how to answer that or how to begin to talk about it because— 

Because Eliot had seen a lot of harrowing shit in his short life, but nothing would ever haunt him quite like those thirty seconds. He had tried to hard to block it out, more than anything else. Quentin rag-dolling in the air and slamming against the Cottage wall, a wide streak of blood trailing as his body slumped down its length. Julia screaming and sobbing his name, but unable to move, trapped under a table. Margo reaching him first, cradling his bleeding head in her lap, her eyes wide and hateful and—worst of all—almost grieving, checking frantically for a pulse. Kady sinking to the ground, her eyes and mouth flying open, destroyed with the horror of what she’d done. 

And Eliot standing frozen, feeling nothing except the reverberation of magic in his palms. Feeling nothing… until Kady whimpered a pathetic _ Oh my god, I’m so sorry _. Then his neck snapped toward her and the lost souls of the River Styx cried in their fury. After that, he didn’t remember much else, except Todd Bates binding Eliot to stop him from attacking Kady. Probably for the best, he was sure. Even though sometimes—

Eliot let out a sharp breath, remembering where he was.

He opened his eyes and swallowed, everything slow and heavy around him. Beside him, Quentin was curled in on himself, tinier than before, which was _ exactly _ what he fucking needed. What either of them needed. Fuck. _ Fuck. _

(Fuck.)

He was such an idiot. He knew he was an idiot. He could feel the idiocy settling on his shaking arms, pushing his face down into his palms. He could feel it wrap around the whole of his body, but he couldn’t do anything to stop it.

“Q—” he said, shaking his head. He didn’t know how to finish his thought. How could he say—? When it was all so—? When they never _ talked about _—? He licked his lips and stared up at him, every emotion he’d ever felt concentrated in a knot in his chest. He was certain his stupid heart was drawn all over his face. 

But Quentin’s was shut down, gray and darting.

“No. Um, shit,” Q said. He broke away further away (_ Nonono, don’t go, don’t go) _ with a breathy laugh and rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. “Shit. No, I’m the one who’s sorry. That wasn’t supposed to happen again. Fuck. Sorry.”

“Q,” Eliot said, breathing hard. His arms were hugging himself around his waist and black spots jumped in front of his eyes. “Um. Look. Maybe we should have another talk about this?”

Everything and nothing was clear. But his heart glowed in the dark, a calling beacon to a part of himself he had buried so long ago. Maybe. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Once upon a time, he had almost lost Quentin and it wasn’t—it wasn’t exactly _ not _ his fault, okay? He fucking knew that. He knew his piece, his part, everything he had done. He knew what he deserved, but he had always, always been selfish. That wasn’t going to change. So now, sitting there in front of Quentin, heart in his hands and all the words jumbled on his tongue as he held his breath, a forgotten and unfamiliar sensation clawed its way through him. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe he could do this. Maybe he could try, for once, for his Q, for himself. Maybe it wasn’t—

But before he could say anything, Quentin pulled further away, leaving nothing but the enchanted cold air of the fan billowing between them. He heaved a heavy sigh and shook his head again.

“No, that’s not—I know, okay? Being attracted to each other doesn’t mean we—you were right,” Quentin said quickly, sliding back down onto the couch. He slapped his palm on top of his eyes. “You were right. This isn’t worth fucking up our friendship.”

Oh.

Well, of course he was right. He was always right.

(Stupid.)

As Eliot processed, his brain a dull whir, Quentin smiled dimly and let his hand fall. “Sorry. Um. Sorry. I’m kind of fucked up right now.”

Right. Broken brain. Of course. Eliot was both an idiot and an asshole. What the fuck was he doing? He needed to get away. He needed to go far, far away. But he just closed his eyes and shook his head, landing firmly back in reality. 

“You’re fine, Q. Or, even if you’re not, _ we’re _ fine,” Eliot said, swiftly pulling his pants back up. He buttoned his shirt, ignoring the burning red blush on his cheeks. “We’re—it’s weird, okay? I know it is. But we’re just... in the worst possible place to be dealing with this.”

“Yeah, I know,” Q said, rubbing the back of his neck. He stared straight ahead and nodded, reflexive. “We’ll be okay. I know.” 

There was nothing more to say to each other. Nothing more they could say. Eliot’s muscles froze and he nodded, a reflexive motion too. With that, they both sat there for far too long, not moving, not looking looking at each other. Not moving. Rationally, he knew he should get up, but he couldn’t. 

So he didn’t.

Neither did Q.

* * *

**Encanto Oculto**   
**_Days _Who Gives a Shit?_ and _Fuck Off.**

Growing up in Indiana, Eliot always loved the word _ moonshine _. When his brothers would talk in the downstairs hallway about making their particular brew out back—gnarly, nasty shit with an almost improbably high proof—he would rest his cheek along the wooden railing of their stairway and dream about slanted light across the cornfield, guiding a path out and away from the hell of his home. He would doodle the word in the margins of notebooks and stare up at the sky every night, hoping against all hope. Moonshine. It was lovely.

Of course, even when he was little, he knew it wasn’t actually so wholesome. He wasn’t stupid. 

But young Eliot liked to think that maybe someday, somehow, he’d be able to reconcile all of it, and that something beautiful could come out of it anyway, improbable as it seemed. But then, the first time he got fucked up on his brothers’ most potent batch, he had gotten so sick, shaking in sweats and struggling to breathe. At least his brothers took good care of him though, giving him water and electrolytes, propping his head up with a pillow and gently ribbing him all while assuring him that he was never alone. That they’d all been there and they would help him get through in one piece.

Ha.

No, obviously, they called him a pussy and kicked him in the head, leaving him lying face down in the barn and not even bothering to throw a scratchy blanket over him. After that, He never dreamed about the moon again.

In the present day, though, Eliot wasn’t fucked up on moonshine. That was for hicks. No, he was in the hookah lounge, on a gorgeous cosmopolitan island in the Mediterranean, covered head-to-toe in silk. A nubile and clean-shaven boy fed him grapes from above, like he was an exalted demigod. How the mighty had risen.

But he was definitely fucked up.

(Quentin wasn’t talking to him.)

(Well, he was. But it was small talk bullshit, which was so much worse.)

Eliot sighed and leaned his head back on the couch-thingy. He needed another drink, but the bar was really far away. He blinked and stared around the ornate surroundings. Lush reds and golds draped everywhere, but he was alone. Everyone else had gone off to get lunch or join an orgy or do something actually _ fun _, rather than staying in with a sad sack drunk. It made sense. But the ice cold grip of loneliness would have staggered him backwards if he hadn’t already been on the ground.

So… fuck it.

He could do what he wanted. He just had no idea what that was. But he didn’t have to think about it that long, because a svelte shadow crossed the lamp-lit patterns around him, hip jutted out like perfection. He would have known the silhouette from anywhere and his intoxicated heart leapt with muted joy.

“There you fuckin’ are,” the best voice in the world greeted him and he didn’t even care how annoyed she sounded. “This is—this a new one, El.”

“Margo,” Eliot said, smiling wide. Margo was here. All was well. But she didn’t smile back. She stepped further into the light and sighed, pointed and irritated. Her hair was down and curled around her bare shoulders. She wore a pink tube top. She was such a teeny bopper at heart. He loved it.

“Eliot, what the shit? Is this where you’ve doing?” Her face scrunched up, like she was angry and disbelieving. “You haven’t answered my texts in over a day. I couldn’t find you.”

“Been _ busy _,” Eliot said, with a hand wave. “I’m a big boy.”

(Busy, like Alice, who wouldn’t even fucking look at him. She hadn’t talked to him in days, except for quick hellos and goodbyes, rushing off everywhere but to hang out with him. Rushing off with Quentin.)

(Who, by the way, was barely talking to him. Except small talk bullshit. Did he mention that?)

“Everyone’s been asking where you are,” Margo’s lips trembled as she hugged herself tighter. “Did you put an anti-locator spell on yourself?”

“Sure as fuck did.” He did. He could do whatever the fuck he wanted.

“That was stupid,” Margo said, eyes flashing and teeth gritting. She always went from zero-to-super pissed. “Why would you—?”

Eliot hiccuped and pulled himself up halfway, his elbows resting on the couch-thingy behind him. He cocked a rakish grin at her and winked. “Now, now. Let’s not focus on drab and dull details. You seem far too sober, my love.”

“I’m a normal amount of vacation drunk, thanks,” Margo said, nose curling up. She held her hands out at the gorgeous and definitely not totally fucked up and messy tent. “But this? This is—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Eliot laughed, shaking a finger in the air. “All I’m hearing is that you need to catch up, Bambi.” 

Margo slammed her eyes closed and pinched her nose. “Eliot—”

“Daddy’s on drink numero cinco,” Eliot held out his hand as he spoke over her buzzkill bullshit, stretching all the fingers wide. Then he hiccupped. He thought very hard. Held up two more fingers. “Siete.”

“Pretty sure you’re rounding down, dick,” she said, folding her arms and arching an eyebrow. Eliot shrugged.

“I may also be on some drugs. Yay drugs,” he said, lifting his hands in the air and razzle-dazzling them at her. She bit the inside of her cheek and pursed her lips.

“Sweetie,” Margo said, stretching herself along the length of the chaise lounge across from him. She reached forward and touched his knee, her big eyes warmer than before. “You know I don’t like to judge, but—“

Eliot let out a loud, snorting laugh, shaking his shoulders. Margo’s eyes narrowed back to burning slivers.

“Sorry, that wasn’t a joke?” He kept laughing, curls bouncing against his sweat-slicked forehead.

She tilted her chin up, staring down at him from her nostrils. He could see the gears shift as she sneered up her lip, eyes like stone. “You look like a cigarette that’s been floating in beer can. Get the fuck up.”

“I’m just trying to have a little _ fun _,” Eliot spat out, hand messing up his hair and sliding down his face. He could feel his eyeliner smudge, but whatever. Louche as fuck, baby. “That’s the point of this place. F-U-N.”

Bambi lost all her patience then. She reached over and smacked him upside the head, without an ounce of gentleness. It hurt. 

“What the hell is going on with you?” Margo demanded, bending down and staring him right in the eyes. She really wasn’t fucking around. And for an insane half-second, he thought about telling her the truth. 

(Fuck.)

But instead—

“I may be… it’s stupid,” Eliot laughed, light as anything. He scratched under his eye a little too hard. It stung. He needed to cut his nails. He cleared his throat and licked his lips. “I’ve been having a slight disagreement with, uh, the Marquis, if you will.”

It was true. 

(But it was more of a symptom than a cause.)

It landed with Margo just as he expected it would though. He watched the understanding and sympathy blossom across her face. Her eyebrows came together, calculating and empathetic. She was the best friend in the world, and he only felt a little guilty.

“Ah, shit,” Bambi said, eyes trailing downward and landing on his crotch. Her lips tilted sideways and she clucked her tongue. “Ah, honey. Okay. I get it.”

“It’s a minor performance issue,” Eliot said, mumbling. He forced himself to sit up more. He was in it now. “I’ll be in tip-top shape in two shakes of a… well, you get it.”

But Margo immediately went into problem-solving mode. She was a goddess. “Magic Viagra?”

He didn’t deserve her.

Eliot gave her a rueful grin. “Doesn’t do shit for me anymore. Overuse immunity or some other nonsense.”

“How about a new location?” She tapped her chin and then pointed at him, excitement sparking in her eyes. “Creature sex?”

“Tried and tried,” Eliot said, low and rough. He chuckled. “Failed spectacularly. I think I just gotta ride it out.”

“Shit,” Margo said, her eyes genuinely sorrowful. He loved her for it. He really didn’t deserve her. “I’m so sorry, El. Of all the fuckin’ times.”

Eliot waved her off and reached for his flask, somewhere in his robe. He took several long gulps and relished popping the top out of his mouth. He smiled at her and took her hand, kissing it once.

“Life is bullshit and everything is misery,” he said, easy as anything. Bambi frowned a little, but she let it go. He loved her for it. Eliot clapped his hands and plastered on a fake grin. “So how are the kiddos? Alice doing okay? Julia?”

Margo snorted, rolling her way down onto the ground to sit next to him. She curled her head onto his shoulder and took his hand in hers. He kissed the top of her head, the cracks in his soul mending slightly. She cuddled in closer, laughing again.

“They’re fine. Alice is boring but not hopeless,” she said, an unusually kind admission. “Been off on her own dumb little adventures. Julie’s outside waiting for me. She’s the same as always.”

“Sure, sure,” Eliot said, nodding. Then, he affected the most casual voice in his arsenal. “And, uh, hey, how about Quentin? How’s Q? Is he embarrassing the hell out of you?”

But he must have failed, because Bambi tensed, her face snapping up at him. Shit.

(Shit.)

“Honey,” Margo said, peeling off him. Her eyes were wide and glued on him, like she was seeing him for the first time. “Oh my god. Is that what this is about?”

(Goddammit.)

Eliot pulled himself up and dug a cigarette out of his robe pocket. He lit it and smoked, head tilted upward, regal.

“Whatever do you mean?” He didn’t look at her. He was nonchalance and grace.

Margo smacked him again, even harder. He grimaced. She was obnoxiously violent sometimes. “Oh, we’re still playing that game, I see.”

It wasn’t a fucking game. It was his life. He didn’t have to share every goddamn thing with her, especially when she hadn’t been around like he needed. She had a lot of fucking nerve, honestly, to make any assumptions about him and especially any assumptions about him and Quentin. What the fuck would she know about it? She hadn’t been there. She didn’t even seem like she wanted to be there, not more than she wanted to hang on _ Julie’s _every boring word.

But he didn’t say that.

(Why would he say that?)

“No,” he said instead, rolling his eyes. He smoked harder. “I just can’t even talk about him without you reading into it now. It’s annoying.”

“Come on, El,” Margo said, gentler than usual. If he didn’t know better, he would think she looked a little hurt. But of course, he knew better. They didn’t hurt each other. They bantered and bitched, but none of it actually touched them. Never could, never would. 

“I asked about everyone else,” Eliot said, growling. He offered her a drag and she shook her head. Oh, right. She quit or whatever. “Why wouldn’t I also ask after Q? He’s my guest. I’m doing my job.”

“Whatever. He’s fine too,” Margo said, cutting the words out behind her teeth. She laughed, harsh and baldly sarcastic. “Living it the fuck up.”

Oh. 

“Well.” Eliot popped his flask into his mouth and grinned, wide as he could. Flask in one hand, cigarette in the other. Everything was grand. “Good for him.”

Even though everything was grand, something in Margo’s face softened, barely perceptible. She sighed, stretching her arms long and loose above her head. She stuck out her tongue, a perfect show of disgust.

“You know, I mean, living it up the way _ Quentin _ does,” she said, rolling her eyes with flair. “Reading in the shade and babbling about the art and shit. He and Julia geeked out over some giant installation that featured, like, Lord of the Rings crap? It was boring. He’s boring. That’s my official stance.”

She was full of shit. Margo loved Q. She also definitely loved Lord of the Rings. A flutter of warmth revived his stupid heart and he sighed, leaning back against her. Without hesitation, she curled into him again. That was what they were like. That was how they’d always be.

But Margo was also relentless, to a fault. She smiled and patted his thigh. “Anyway, hey, come get lunch with Julie and me.”

“Margo,” he said, rolling his head toward her. He smirked. “I’m a little busy.”

The bar really was calling him and the last of the Chocolate Sunshine was wearing off. He wasn’t totally sure he was ready to face the world yet. Or the people in the world, even in the sweet comfort of Encanto Oculto.

“Not a request, dickhead,” Margo said, cutting into his thoughts without quarter. She stood and tugged his arm up. Because he was a weak man, he followed, scrambling up on his lazy bones. “Come on. Move that hot ass. Sunlight and socializing awaits you, you fucking creature of the night.”

He kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her as they walked toward the light. “Anything for you, Bambi.”

(Lunch was fine. They ate lobster. They drank wine. He flirted with a waiter.)

(And if Julia seemed stilted as she looked him up and down, smile tight as she spat out, “Hello, _ Eliot _,” and then barely acknowledged him again, he was sure it was all in his head.)

* * *

**Encanto Oculto**   
** _Day Seven_ **

But the tide turned on the final day. 

A dark gray seatbelt bit into Eliot’s shoulder and he white-knuckled against his knees, genuine panic churning in his gut as the car stuttered along the unfamiliar road, likely to a fiery crash. 

He had tried being patient. He had tried being calm. He had even tried coaxing and positive reinforcement, only to receive grunts and a cold shoulder in return. He understood to an extent, since shit was so tense. But when the revs increased like the harbinger of death, he knew he couldn’t take it anymore and the frantic orders started flowing out of him.

… It didn’t go well.

“Shift the fucking gear, Quentin!”

“Do you really think yelling at me helps, Eliot? Do you think _ yelling _ is the key here?”

“I don’t care,_ shift _ the goddamn _ gear _!”

“I’m shifting it! I am currently shifting it! What more do you want from me?”

“Oh my god, downshift!”

“I’m shifting!” 

_ “Downshift, _ Q. Downshift!”

“I don’t know what that means! Vary your language!”

Synapses firing and nerves screaming, Eliot summoned all his commanding calm and pounded his words out, never taking his eyes off Quentin’s shaking face, in case it was the last time he would ever see him. 

“Push the clutch in and go to the fucking _ lower _ gear,” he snarled out. With unsteady hands, Quentin did so and the god-awful sound finally stopped. He breathed easier, but didn’t let up in his forcefulness. “Now hit the gas—no, goddammit, the _ gas _—there, right.” 

He did it. Okay. They would probably survive the next few minutes. Eliot leaned back and closed his eyes, relief washing over him. But he could still feel Quentin’s tension beside him, like an electric current. 

(He resisted the urge to cover his hand with his.)

Instead, he let out another slow breath and said, “Now slowly release and add—yes, you got it. You got it.” Finally, they were cruising at a lower speed down the backroad, safe and sound. Jesus. Fuck. Jesus. “Okay. You’re good. Jesus.”

Quentin swallowed, face pale and knuckles paler as they clutched the steering wheel. He stared ahead, steely and stern. 

“Thank you,” he mumbled out, reluctant as hell, ticking his head toward Eliot in bare minimum acknowledgment. 

Eliot offered back a closed-lipped smile that Q definitely didn’t see. He really didn’t sound particularly grateful, even though Eliot had literally just saved their lives, or at least the car’s life, for sure. But he was actually speaking to him now, outside of panicked yelps, which was an upgrade. But in their brush with death, Eliot realized he had been remiss in the most important question of all, because he had made assumptions based on other pieces of irrelevant information. Rookie mistake.

So he slid his eyes over, careful yet probing. “Do you actually know how to drive stick, Q?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, like a strong punctuation mark. Then he wavered, clearing his throat and ticking his shoulder up once. “Well. Kind of.”

“What does that mean?” He was all innocence and curiosity, truly. “_ Kind of _?”

The blush hit Quentin’s cheeks like splattered tomatoes. 

“I, uh,” he licked his lips, not taking his blazing eyes off the road. He shrugged again, like it wasn’t a big deal. “I read a Wiki How before we left.”

Eliot let himself look at Quentin for two very, _ very _ long beats before setting his jaw forward. “Pull over.”

“I’ve got it now,” Q said defensively. He gripped the steering wheel tighter, as though that projected Confidence and Skill. “I just forgot how to decrease speed.”

“Kind of an important part,” Eliot said, but then sighed when Quentin’s brow came together, morose and mulish. “But be that as it may, just let me drive. It’ll be easier.”

The mule revved up to kick and Quentin sucked his cheeks into his teeth. “No.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

That was obviously the wrong thing to say, considering everything. But he was totally being a dick. What, was Eliot supposed to pussyfoot around it? From what he could tell, Quentin could probably barely drive an _ automatic _ car, as he originally suspected. He must have bribed someone or used unwitting mind-control to get his license. Seriously. But regardless, the words pissed Quentin off as soon as he heard them and he let out a frustrated scoff.

“_ You’re _ telling _ me _ not to be a dick right now?” He slammed his eyes over at Eliot for a half-second before gluing them back on the road. “Seriously?”

Eliot pulled his lips together and smiled, airy and with just the right hit of condescension. “Okay. I know you’re pissed at me, but that doesn’t mean—“

“Because you shouldn’t even be here, Eliot,” Quentin said, releasing his hands from the steering wheel just enough to hit it once. Then he gripped it all over again, like penance for forgetting himself. “This isn’t any of your business—“

Now it was Eliot’s turn to scoff. “Well, I certainly wasn’t going to let you get into a fucking car with—“

“Let me?” Quentin’s eyes ripped over again, angrier than before. “_ Let _ me?”

“Jesus, you know what I mean,” he said quietly, staring down at his hands. He didn’t mean it like—he knew Quentin was perfectly capable of—he just didn’t want—

“No,” Q said, cutting off his train of thought with a small, hysterical laugh. “Explain. What do you mean, Eliot?”

He ignored that. Quentin knew. He was being an ass. 

“I should drive. Seriously,” Eliot insisted. When Quentin made a low, frustrated sound all over again, he bit down on his lip, forcing his patience and composure. “It’s a safety thing and there’s also no fucking way this is a pleasant experience for you. So come on.”

But Quentin shook his head, something small shifting in the lines of his face. He coughed. “That’s a bad idea.”

“In what possible way?” Fuck, he was such a _ stubborn asshole _sometimes. God. To prove the point, Quentin kept staring ahead, unmoved. Eliot poked him on the shoulder once with a firm finger. “I’m serious. How is my driving a bad idea compared to this chaos?”

He stared at the taciturn Quentin, whose jaw muscles rippled over and over again. Running his tongue along his teeth, he glanced over at Eliot, eyes softer than before, but no less serious.

“How many drinks have you had today?” He asked it quietly, patiently even, which was way worse. A cold front settled on Eliot’s chest and he stared out the windshield. His silence was obviously the answer Quentin was looking for and he chuckled softly, humorlessly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

He didn’t know why he felt like he had to justify himself. He didn’t. But still—

“I’m on vacation.”

“Right,” Quentin said, nodding. Silence spanned over them, unmovable. It said enough.Then Q refocused on driving, and the two of them didn’t speak again until they reached Ibiza Town. 

Thankfully, the drive was only fifteen minutes long, which was why Alice hadn’t built a portal. She would probably come to regret that decision, Eliot thought, as he stared out the window from the winding hillside onto the wide and glittering sea. Silently beside him, Quentin pulled into a decent parallel park, proving that he always had surprises up his sleeves.

“Don’t forget the handbrake,” Eliot said quietly, not looking over. Quentin nodded and applied it, pulling the car to a complete stop along the brown and beige cobblestone, dusting the red car in a fine layer of gold. The sun was lowering already, gentle over the stark cliffs and stunning aquamarine. It was lovely, but it wasn’t important. 

He glanced over at the paper map in Quentin’s hands. A tiny blue dot pulsated on the top of the hill and he calculated the fastest path in his head, quick and with ease. Clicking open the door and storming out, he barely checked to see if it had closed behind him as he started his long, full strides up Dalt Vila, faster than Q could catch.

“Eliot!” The voice behind him called angrily, but he didn’t stop for a second. 

He had a mission. 

He had a fucking party to break up.

* * *

It had all started innocently enough. 

Eliot had stumbled in from a night out with Margo—boozy and blissful, if still not to his usual, ah, _ physical _standard—and promptly passed out on the ugly couch. Then, he woke up at two in the afternoon, poured himself a few hangover cures and a pitcher-for-one of mimosas, and treated himself to solitude on the porch, feet dipped in the cool water and listening to nothing but the sound of cawing gulls. Also, he popped out a quick mind-clearing tut made it so he didn’t think about certain things or certain boys or anything at all, if he didn’t want to. Face to the sun and liver sated, it was the perfect way to relax on a perfect day.

But then a certain boy interrupted him and god fuck it all, if nothing made him happier.

Quentin stuck his head out the patio door with a quick knock and a furrowed brow. “Hey, uh, El? Can you do me a favor?”

_ Anything. _ “Sure,” Eliot said, rolling his head backwards to stare at him upside down. “What’s up?”

The first sign that something was off should have been then, but he was pretty tipsy. So he chalked up Quentin’s shifting feet and eyes up to his usual twitchiness. Quentin was a twitchy person. Just facts.

“I need to get to, uh—shit, my Spanish is rusty, Es Xarcu?” He pronounced it like _ EX-arcu _, which was close enough. Well, okay, not really. By whatever. Meanwhile, Quentin ran his hand through his hair over and over again. “It’s a restaurant outside of the wards and I’m having a bitch of a time getting through the northeastern lock. Could I borrow your key?"

Eliot spun around, like a cat, so he laid on his belly. He propped his chin on the back of the lounge chair and lowered his sunglasses to smirk up at Q. “No. I told you, it’s like alumni keys. I can’t just hand them out.”

“Ah, shit, right,” Q said, hand still plastered to his head. He waved up and into the air, with a sigh. “Never mind then. I’ll figure something else out.”

“But I can go with you,” Eliot said slowly, patiently offering the really fucking obvious solution. Quentin tensed, like he hadn’t predicted that. He cleared his throat and licked his lips, looking everywhere he could, like he would find something to save him.

“No, no,” Q said, too casual. Way too casual. His voice squeaked like a pubsecent boy’s. “Um, don’t worry about it.”

Eliot’s eyes narrowed, suspicious. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” Quentin said again, that time a little too forcefully. He cleared his throat and softened, terribly falsifying nonchalance. “No, it’s fine. I’ll figure it out. Thanks though.”

“Q,” Eliot said, before pressing his lips into a line. Who the fuck did he think he was talking to here?

“El,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s fine.”

“Q.”

“Drop it,” Quentin said, dropping his own act. He spat the words out, eyes flashing. A pang of worry hit Eliot and he stood up, leaning his weight against the chair and giving Q his most Mentorly gaze. 

“What’s going on?” Eliot reached out to tap at his shoulder, to remind him that they were all friends here. 

“Nothing. I just—I have to go pick up Alice,” Quentin said, eyes closing. Which was lucky because who the fuck knew what Eliot’s face did at that piece of information. Probably nothing dignified. “She’s stranded in Ibiza Town without cash and she asked me to, uh, grab a rental car that... she left at the restaurant.”

Any residual gnarled jealousy dissipated into confusion. Eliot frowned. “I have so many questions.”

“That’s why I wanted to drop this,” Quentin said, staring upward and shaking his head. Eliot sucked his lower lip into his teeth and brought his hands together. He had to ask. 

He _ had to _ ask.

Eliot cocked an eye at Quentin and gave him his best sheepish look. “Most pertinent of which is: Do you know how to drive?”

“Of course I know how to drive,” Q said, eyes meeting his for the first time. He looked thoroughly insulted. It did nothing to inspire confidence.

“Hm,” Eliot said, astutely. 

Quentin crossed his arms and blazed his eyes. “I know how to drive, Eliot!”

He laughed and patted his arm, moving past him and into the living room. His mind was made up, though he still had to make it seem like Quentin was in on the end result. He shucked off his robe and grabbed his shirt from the coffee table, buttoning it up. He still had his seersucker shorts on, so if he just found the right pair of shoes, he’d be ready for a quick adventure into town.

“Well, now I’m coming with you out of sheer morbid curiosity,” Eliot said with a twinkling laugh, as he bent down to grab his boat shoes and striped socks from their precarious position by the kitchen island. “To see these alleged driving skills of yours.”

But Quentin wasn’t budging.

“El, you can’t come, okay?” He sounded so wrecked and it sent a wave of nausea through his whole nervous system. “Please drop this.”

Eliot strode over to the couch and slipped his socks on, pulling them up his calves one at a time. The fabric was a silk blend and it soothed him, reminding him who he was. Then he slid his feet into each shoe, before popping his polo’s collar just so and raking a hand through his hair. He was Eliot Waugh. He could do this. It was fine.

“Quentin, look, you don’t have to—” He cut himself off with a forced laugh and then grinned up at him, with all the ease in the world. “You don’t have to feel bad, okay?”

Q’s face went from fretting to puzzled, like he’d been jolted between two emotions. “What? Feel bad about what?” 

“You know,” Eliot said, blowing out a puff of air. He stood and twirled his hand about, spinning away from Quentin. “If you and Alice are, you know—”

“I’m sorry, what?” When Quentin cut him off, he didn’t exactly sound puzzled. Eliot paused and turned back around, slightly startled to see Quentin’s eyes burning toward him. His jaw was set along with his stance, arms crossed and eyebrows folded down.

He smiled. “I’m just saying, you don’t need to feel like you can’t—”

“If Alice and I _ what, _Eliot?” Quentin demanded.

“She’s cute,” he said with a quick shrug of his shoulder. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it. Smoked serenely. “I get it. You two would make a—”

Quentin literally stomped his foot on the ground. “Jesus Christ, are you serious right now?”

Fuck. Okay. Maybe this wasn’t the time. Eliot let out a slow stream of air, the smoke wrapping around his nose perfectly. He stared at the ground and slowly smiled, a fake thing, but a thing nonetheless.

“I’ve upset you,” Eliot said, gently. “Let me start over.”

“I’m not dating Alice, Eliot,” Quentin said, darkly quiet. Which, okay, sure, Eliot knew he probably wasn’t. But his actual point was that he didn’t need to try to hide things from him. If he wanted to date Alice, if he wanted to move on, he didn’t need to hold off just because of… some dumb hook up between the two of them. The whole point was that their friendship was more important. So they could be friends and they could both move on. Or Q could. Q should.

“Okay,” Eliot said, laughing around his cigarette. “Fine. So then, whatever it is that’s between you two—” 

“Jesus fucking goddamn son-of-a-bitch,” Quentin shot out, rage spilling off him in waves. “Are you _ serious _?”

A seed of his own annoyance formed in his gut. “I’m trying to say that I’m your friend and I support you and you don’t have to be weird about this, Q.”

“Holy shit, Eliot,” Q was the one laughing now, palming at his eyes before slamming his hands down on his legs. “Alice is on a date with Kady right now.” 

Quentin threw his arms up into a _ Are you happy? _fake shrug, as though every vein in Eliot’s body hadn’t stopped moving at that completely unexpected name drop. His nostrils flared and his cigarette shivered between his fingers. His brain was short-circuiting. 

_ Oh my god, I’m so sorry. _

_ Oh my god, I’m so sorry. _

_ Oh my god, I’m so sorry. _

“What?” He didn’t even recognize his voice as it hissed out. It wasn’t lost on Quentin, who nodded and collapsed in the other loveseat in the living room, holding his face in his hands. His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his eyes, hard. Eliot couldn’t move. He stood as tall and as still as he could. His throat was closing in on itself.

“They went biking and Alice hurt her ankle, and I’m the only one who knows that Kady is even fucking here since everyone fucking hates her,” Quentin explained, playing with his hands. He cleaned out his thumbnail with his teeth. “So—so—so I’m trying to do the right thing by keeping their secret so they can actually, like, get to know each other, but now I’ve gone and fucked that up because you’re so—Jesus.”

Eliot didn’t care about any of that. All he cared about was: “Holy fuck, are _ you _ serious right now?”

“Do not start with this, El—”

… Which of course, had been the beginning of the end. It wasn’t long before Eliot had strongarmed his way into the car and into a stony detente with Q, who was still pissed at him but wasn’t sure how to actually fight back against him. Not this time. He hadn’t really, since—

Eliot closed his eyes and kept moving forward. 

The point was, Eliot almost always got his way, no matter the cost. And now, he was walking as far and as fast ahead as he could, ready to pounce. 

He couldn’t believe the fucking gall of Kady Orloff-Diaz. 

His heart trembled and flipped with every step he took, his stomach churning. He ignored the voice in his head, the one that grew louder every day, the one that sounded like Margo (_ Fuck you, Margo _), that told him he was being ridiculous and overreacting and that it had been an accident and a series of fuck ups and not any one person’s fault and—

And then Eliot saw them, sitting together on the top of Dalt Vila. 

The fortified hilltop was golden in the late afternoon sun, with all its cobbled lanes moving down from their perch below the cathedral. The sight was majestic, tranquil and stunning, like an old painting. The crowds were thin that day, due to the chilled breeze in the air. But Alice and Kady sat together, like nothing else existed. Covered in a single blanket—quilted in blues and greens and violets—their shoulders were crunched together, shivering exaggeratedly at the cool breeze off the marine layer.

Meanwhile, his head was spinning, and his fingers clenched into his pockets. Maybe the world was spinning. His breath was labored, tight in his chest. He tutted out an amplification spell and their voices carried over in an instant, like they were right beside him under the stone archway.

“Not in a narc way or anything,” the deeper, scratchy voice said and the more nasal of the two let out an intent _ Hmm _, as though she was considering the notion.

Blithely unaware of their impact on the invisible-to-them Eliot, the women stretched their legs out into the air, both grinning wildly. Kady tossed her hair back and took Alice’s leg into his lap, hand wrapping around her swollen ankle. 

“But yeah, I think I really give a shit about trying to make the magical world safer,” Kady’s voice said, like she was clarifying. Eliot was still frozen, morbid curiosity lighting his veins on fire. “For everyone. Not only the classically trained.”

“Admirable,” Alice said, her smile cooling into a smirk he could barely see. Her head ticked to the side. “But I actually asked why you wanted to be a cop?” 

Eliot snorted despite himself. Alice’s sarcasm was always a treat. Kady turned to look at her and Eliot could see half of a wide toothy smile creep up her face.

“Ouch, Blondie,” Kady said, leaning back on her hands, precarious on the ledge. “There’s something to be said for affecting change from the inside.”

“Something, sure,” Alice said with a nod. She bit her lip. “But nothing based on statistical success rates. I can send you a few well-sourced articles that bear out the actual facts, if you’d like.”

“_ Ouch _ all over again,” Kady said as she dramatized falling to the side. Alice scrambled forward like she thought Kady would actually fall, but she just held her hand to her chest as she laughed. “Crushing my dreams. Cold-blooded mama.”

Alice’s face turned down and her fingers swished across the rocks behind her, in trailing, swirling patterns. “Sorry. I—I know I can be a little much sometimes. Sorry.”

But Kady just smiled again, softer. “Don’t be sorry. I like it. It’s refreshing. Too many bullshitters in the world.”

Alice lifted her face back up and the soft smile reflected back.

“Thank you. But the kind thing to do would be to ask why it matters,” she said, wringing her hands. “So why does safety matter to you? In terms of building your career off it?”

Kady bit the inside of her cheek, sucking in a tiny false dimple. She regarded Alice slowly, trailing her eyes up and down, searching and seeking. She smiled, huffed out a breath, and cleared her throat. She answered Alice’s question with her own.

“Do you know why I’m here right now?” 

Alice frowned. “Well, it started because we ran into each other in the silly string room earlier in the week and then we decided to—”

“Thank you for the recap, but I actually meant,” Kady laughed into the crook of her elbow before biting her lip, eyes twinkling at Alice’s stern and confused face, “why do you think I’m here, in Ibiza at all? Do you really think Encanto Oculto is my scene?”

“I suppose not,” Alice frowned even deeper, the lines on her face stark in the light. “But it’s not necessarily mine either, so far be it from me to question.”

“You’ve got friends who are, like, way into it though,” Kady said, rolling her eyes. “So makes sense you’d be a forced tagalong.” 

Alice’s face smoothed out, but her eyes narrowed. “No one _ forced _ me to do anything.”

Damn right. Tell her, bitch.

“Sorry, yeah, no,” Kady held her hand up, eyes hooded and sincere. “I didn’t mean it like that. Sorry. I more meant that I have even less reason to be here than you.”

“Okay,” Alice’s lips twitched, trying not to let out her impatience and failing. “So then why are you here?”

Kady closed her eyes and took a deep breath, stretching out her hands. She tutted out a few tiny wisps of cooling magic, curling around their exposed skin. “I’m here because a friend of mine struggles with addiction and she needed me to get her to a safe location. So I portaled in and got her the hell out. Then, once she was in good hands, I came back to tie up any shitty loose ends for her.”

Huh.

Honestly, Eliot didn’t really have a way to snark on that. 

It was a decent thing to do. And probably a really hard thing, for everyone involved, which was was an uncomfortable admission for him. Kady was the worst person in the world. That didn’t fit the narrative. But he supposed even villains patted the dog on occasion.

“Oh,” Alice said, a reasonable reaction. Her voice was tiny. “Is your friend okay?”

“She’s physically safe,” is all Kady said. She raised her eyebrows once and let out another long breath, scratching her hairline. “I’m not here to air dirty laundry or make myself look like pious or something. It’s not like I didn’t end up having a really fucking good here over the past few days, you know?”

Alice’s smile lit up the whole hillside. Kady’s eyes softened on her, and she let out a tiny laugh, staring down at her hands. If Eliot didn’t know better, he’d think the worst person on the planet was blushing over a cute girl.

“But I’ve seen a lot of shit and I’ve—you know,” she continued, her hands twisting into themselves, “I’ve also done a lot of shit. And I’m trying to figure out how I can use that to make a difference. How I can put what I’ve learned to good use.”

“It sounds like you already are,” Alice said, light and almost fragile. Then she bit her lip, suddenly sly. “And you’re obviously quite the code-cracker if you could break into _ Encanto Oculto _.”

Kady’s green eyes blazed up at her, before they melted into amusement. She laughed, loud. Alice wrinkled her nose, far too amused with herself.

“Yeah, the wards are, like, _ really _ shitty,” Kady said with another full laugh and Alice snorted, face scrunching up with glee.

“You have no idea. They put us in this desert simulation to start,” she said, ducking her head down like she was revealing classified information. “The spell craftsmanship was like a videogame from the 1970s. So obvious to anyone who had even the smallest idea of what to look for. I could have demolished it in seconds.”

Kady gave her a tiny punch on the arm. “Why didn’t you?” 

“Because no one likes an uptight, know-it-all, show off bitch,” Alice said, arching a wry eyebrow. But she gave herself away by averting her gaze at the last second with a wavering smile. 

Kady stared at her again, seeking and searching, face rounding through several complicated things that Eliot wouldn’t have understood even if he had the inclination to try. But then she settled on a soft look, head cocking and eyes gentle.

“Speak for yourself,” she finally said, voice lower and clearer than he’d ever heard her. At Alice’s wide eyes, Kady lifted her chin up toward the horizon and pulled in closer, so they were cuddled into each other. It was a sweet, quiet moment, between a lovely ray of light and Beezlebub. Eliot caught a second wind, and his anger coiled again in his steel chest.

“I always do,” Alice said, with a small chuckle. She pushed her glasses up her nose. “Only person I would dare speak for, really.”

“People underestimate you, Quinn,” Kady said, twinkling. Alice slowly smiled.

“Wait, people? Underestimate _ me _ ? What are their names?” Alice sat up taller, bouncing. She faced Kady and held her face stern. “Because I’ll give them something to really _ fucking _ underestimate.”

She put way too much emphasis on the word _ fucking _. But damn, if it wasn’t among the cutest things he’d ever heard, especially followed by her gleeful, snorting giggle. Kady was so fucking unworthy.

“Ooh, Blondie goes badass.” Kady held the tip of her tongue between her teeth and waggled her eyebrows. “Describe your first order of business.”

Alice huffed out a thoughtful breath, tapping her chin. Her pink lower lip slipped between her teeth, but there was no anxiety painted on her face. It was performance. It was flirtatious. Eliot was going to be sick.

“Army of enchanted and sentient horses,” she said, smiling wider than the horizon. She held her hand out, like she was sweeping an elaborate painting across the faraway water. “So I can free them and they can live their best lives through the multiverse.”

Kady snorted. “That—is not badass. That’s some Princess Sparklemoon shit.”

“Horses are inherently badass,” Alice said, falling into a frown. She crossed her arms and tited her strong chin up, a challenge. “Have you ever seen a horse?”

“Yeah, okay,” Kady said, nodding and raking her hand through her wild hair. Her smile was tiny, almost private, in its teasing. “You had those binders in middle school, didn’t you?”

Alice froze for a moment, eyes wide. But then she cleared her throat, eyebrows coming together. “Binders?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Kady winked, lips curling up and up. “You fucking had them. Photorealistic mass print paintings, lush pastoral scenes, ring a bell?”

For a few moments, Alice stared straight ahead, like she wasn’t going to dignify Kady’s line of questioning. But then she sniffed and held her head all the higher. “They were more like pocket folders.”

Kady let out another loud laugh and Alice broke, her giggling a sweet and tinkling sound that harmonized with the deeper roar beside her. Eliot’s stomach did something strange and twisting, and his heart kicked up its speed for no reason. He couldn’t quantify and qualify what was swirling in him, and he was almost grateful for the feel of another shoulder brushing against his, breaking him out of the moment. 

Quentin stood next to him, looking right ahead, a soft smile on his lips. Innocent looking, but hiding a natural smugness, Eliot knew. All in all, he knew him well.

“They’re cute, right?” Q said more than asked, his voice soft on the wind.

Eliot sneered and repeated Kady’s words, ironic even if Q wouldn’t get the reference. He stared daggers at them. “Speak for yourself.”

“They’re happy,” Quentin said, his voice losing the softness. He clenched his jaw and shook his head. “Or they could be happy, given the chance. They like each other and they want to be together. Simple.”

Eliot was so tired. It had been a long fucking week. Usually, Encanto revived him for the upcoming year. It gave him purpose and drive. It reminded him that there was marrow to suck from the world and that he was finally in the position to do so, without anyone getting in his fucking way. No Indiana, no Taylor, no brothers, no fathers, no Baptists, no bullshit. 

Now, though, he was drained. He was tired. His eyelids were sandy and heavy, and he wanted to sleep for a lifetime. He kicked at the ground and cleared his throat, his lips tingling with so many unspoken words. Finally, he risked a glance over at Quentin, standing beautiful in the sunlight, so convinced he was doing the right thing. He always was. And even more remarkable, normally, he wasn’t wrong.

(Eliot was wrong all the fucking time.)

He kicked at the cobblestone and huffed out a breath. “Q, you know, right?”

“I know what?” Quentin blinked over at him, frowning.

“That my issue with Kady has nothing to do with the Cottage,” Eliot said, the words tumbling without grace. “You can’t—you know that, right?”

He stared up at him again, the back of his eyeballs burning and the world a little blurrier than it was before. He sniffed and swallowed the thick saliva down, forcing himself forward. He had to look at him for this, if they were going to do this. And for a second, Quentin’s face broke open, painfully bright and hopeful, his wide eyes looking at Eliot like he couldn’t believe he was real.

But then it shut down, and he tore his eyes away, everything going bleak around the edges.

“Let’s not talk about that, okay?” Quentin was monotone. “It’s ancient history.”

Eliot smiled, hollow. No, it wasn’t. But it also wasn’t Eliot’s business. None of it was. He knew that. 

He knew that.

But all he could think about, in the insane golden light, while two women held each other in the distance and he couldn’t make sense of how he felt about it, was—

_ “El!” Quentin’s face broke into a dopey smile, all drugged out bliss. Eliot’s stomach flipped over and his chest tightened, but he smoothed his features out and slid onto the small sliver of bed. He had finally gotten his shit together. He wasn’t going to ruin the moment. Not now. _

_ It wasn’t the first time he had seen him, of course. That had been when Lipson patiently—and then impatiently, at all of Julia’s questions—let them know that Quentin was going to be just fine. He had to be sedated for twenty-four hours for the healing spells to take place, due to the concussion, head wound, and the blood poison from a battle magic blast, but he was fine. He was fine. _

_ Of course, Julia got the first shift, once he was awake, and she had taken up several very long hours. Obviously her prerogative, he supposed with a bitter stutter in his chest. But now it was finally Eliot’s turn and he was—ill-equipped. Quentin’s bright smile, like nothing had happened, like nothing had changed didn’t help matters, not deep down. _

_ But Eliot wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. _

_ “Glad to see you, kid,” he said, lightly ruffling his hair. It was slightly greasy and stringy. It was beautiful. “Gave us a scare.” _

_ But Quentin didn’t directly respond, opting instead to close his eyes and lean into his touch. “My El is here.” _

_ God. Eliot swallowed down a sigh and forced out a laugh, like Quentin had told a funny joke. He was his, _ he was his _ , how uproarious. Centering himself out of his own bullshit, he slid further onto the bed and waggled his eyebrows, all normalcy. _

_ “I come bearing contraband,” Eliot said with a wink, patting his waistcoat pocket. Quentin’s eyes widened impossibly. _

_ “I don’t think I can—“ he blinked, looking both ways, fearful and intrigued. “I don’t think I can have a _ cocktail _ right now, El.” _

_ Eliot dipped his lip between his teeth and tried not to laugh. “It’s not a cocktail, Q.” _

_ He needed a cocktail, but that was neither here nor fucking there. This was important. So he forced himself to be grounded, to be present. For Q. For his Q. He was his. _

_ So without further adieu, Eliot pulled out the playing cards and placed them on the tray with a flourish. And god, he wanted to _ live _ in how Quentin lit up like a nerdy little Christmas tree. _

_ “Oh, damn!” Quentin said, marveling at the standard deck like it was the first time he saw magic. “Cards! I love cards!” _

_ Eliot grinned over his aching heart and tapped at them with his pinky. “I figure in your current state, I actually have a chance.” _

_ “Uh. Except you’re a bitch ass sucker,” Quentin said with a scoff, going from starry eyed to smack talker in zero to sixty, “and I’m a god.” _

_ “Can you always be on whatever these painkillers are?” Eliot was serious. But also not. All versions of Quentin managed to intrigue and delight him. _

_ Even the ones that shouldn’t. _

_ He hated himself. Eliot briefly closed his eyes against the clanking memories of their last conversation, of how things could have— _

Focus, dickhole_ , his inner Margo scolded, rightfully so. She was right. He needed to stay present. He needed to move forward. Always move forward, always. _

_ Meanwhile, Quentin was still preening and laughing at his own train of thought, nary a care in the world. _

_ Thank fuck. _

_ “Not the pills. That’s pure Coldwater, baby,” Q’s giant eyes brightened and he put his hands behind his head, looking like a lamb in lion skin. “No fuckin’ Brita filter.” _

_ Eliot snorted and shook his head. “Deal, hot shot.” _

_ “I’m on some real good shit, El,” Quentin said, like he was revealing a secret. Eliot just smiled and resisted the urge to wrap himself around him, and never let go. It was herculean. _

_ But then, without warning, Quentin slammed his eyes shut and swallowed, trembling. Eliot instinctively reached out to him, hands around his face. Q sighed and leaned into his touch, but didn’t open his eyes. _

_ “Hey, um, I’m actually—I’m just gonna rest my eyes for two seconds, okay?” Quentin said this like he was worried Eliot was going to be mad. He hated himself so much. “Then we can proceed your humiliation. Promise.” _

_ Nodding to himself, Eliot’s heart caught in his throat and he wasn’t sure if he would be able to move. But he finally did, and he moved closer against his better judgment. Because he knew Q wouldn’t remember, Eliot ran his fingers through his hair and kissed him on the forehead. _

_ He whispered, lips still on his skin, “Whatever you need, sweetheart.” _

_ His thoughts betrayed him like a barrage as the gentle sweet-salt of _ Quentin _ enveloped him, like a hug, like a strangle, like everything he didn’t let himself want. Eliot pulled away, clearing his throat. He needed to get a fucking grip. He would get a fucking grip. He owed Q that much, not his bullshit. _

_ Meanwhile, Q was already half-asleep, but when Eliot tried to extract himself, his hand reached out and grabbed Eliot’s wrist, keeping him in place. _

_ “You’ll stay, right?” His voice was muffled as he snuggled his face into the comfy looking infirmary pillow. “Gotta stay so I can kick your ass later and also ‘cause… ‘cause… uh, you just—you gotta stay.” _

_ Eliot choked back a sob and nodded. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him. It wasn’t about him. _

_ “Of course I’ll stay,” he said, tracing his thumb along the knobby bones of Quentin’s knuckles. He sighed. “I’ll always stay.” _

(The truly fucked up thing was that Eliot hadn’t even hugged him after he’d woken up. Every time he saw Quentin, he’d just pat his head and joke around, sneaking him snacks and even a few cigarettes. He sat with him on the edge of the bed and they did play cards sometimes, but mostly chatted about nothing, laughing like they were on a couch in the Cottage.) 

(But all Eliot had wanted to do was hold him and hold him, tight against his chest, lips murmuring nonsense promises into his hair, and hands pressing into his back, all telegraphing every ounce of burning affection he felt for him, until it was all okay again. And every day after, even after everything really was okay and everyone else seemed to just _ forget _ , like it _ didn’t matter, _ like it _ never happened, _there was still a part of him that ached for exactly that.)

(At the time, ignoring those instincts seemed like the best course of action, but now…)

(But now.)

Eliot cleared his throat. The frog jumped. “Yeah. We won’t talk about it. Whatever you want.”

“Okay,” Quentin said, quiet. So fucking quiet. Between them, the sound of the sea was deafening, even from their great height. “Okay.”

Eliot popped his collar again, ticking his neck to the left and then to the right. He fixed his hair. He lit a cigarette. He bit down on the filter and steeled his gaze forward, as he took nice long steps ahead, with Quentin trailing him. Ahead of them the women kept chatting and laughing indistinctly, as he got closer and closer.

He was about a foot away from them when Alice caught sight of him in her periphery—and all the color drained from her sweet flushed face in an instant.

_ Good. _

“Eliot,” she said, sitting up straight and stuttering her fingers along the blanket. Kady turned around too and her eyes set to stone, lips puckering into a fury. He didn’t even spare her a second glance. Instead, he zeroed his eyes into Alice’s blinking blue guilty ones and brought his cigarette up, a plume of smoke in the air like a dance.

“Not happy to see me, darling?” He asked, a rounded smile making his point. Kady let out a sharp laugh and looked behind him, to the scurrying figure that had just bumped up next to him.

“What the shit, Coldwater?” She snapped, while Alice tucked her hair behind her ears. That caught his attention and Eliot laughed, holding himself back from snarling at Kady.

“Yeah,” he said, with a click of his tongue. “You don’t talk to him. You have anything to say, you say it to me.”

“Fuck you,” Kady said, widening her eyes and holding up two middle fingers at once. “That good enough?”

Just as he was about to retort with more viciousness than she had in her poorly manicured black pinky nail, Quentin stepped on Eliot’s foot. Not too hard, but hard enough. 

“You said you were going to try not to be a dickhead about this,” Q said, out the side of his mouth and stern, like a librarian.

Eliot smiled all the wider. “And I’m trying _ very _ hard.”

“Quentin,” Alice said quietly, bunching her skirt in between her fists. “What—you know—I—?”

“I know,” Quentin sighed, brushing his hair back. He indicated Eliot like he was a traffic jam. “It just—it happened. I’m sorry. It was my fault.”

Eliot snorted and rubbed at his temples, still holding his cigarette. He sighed and shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood for chit-chat. He wasn’t in the mood for excuses. He had made his point, if Alice’s darting and scared eyes were any indication. She knew that what she was doing was wrong. She knew what he had told her. There was no need to rub salt in it.

So he threw his cigarette on the ground and stomped, pressing it into the ancient stone with his heel. He ground it like a mortar and pestle, until it was nothing. Finally, he glared up at Kady, eyebrow arching. She burned fire back at him and sat up tall, arms crossing in her usual defensive stance.

“You know how to drive stick?” Eliot asked, even as he could. Kady rolled her eyes.

“Obviously,” she said, like he was a moron. “It’s my car.”

Using his telekinesis, he called the keys out of Quentin’s pocket and threw them right at her. She barely caught them before they flew over the edge. He could feel Quentin’s sullen glare right at him, but he was done. He was too tired for this shit.

“Then make yourself useful,” Eliot said, sparing her one more glance before spinning around and striding back down, far and away, and ready to disappear.

* * *

That night, the beach was quiet and empty. The sky above Eliot was flashing bright neon, but it didn’t blind him. The effect was diffused with magic, like watching a firework display from afar. Affecting and beautiful, but distant and untouchable. Almost like a dream. Curling his legs in toward his chest, he rested his elbow back and he smoked, staring up at nothing.

All in all, it hadn’t been his most successful Encanto. 

Smoke surrounded him, white-gray and floating off into nothing. He wondered if there was magic that could change him into vapor, so he could join it, so he could disappear.

_ Oh, I wish I had a river / I could skate away on. _

It really was coming on Christmas now, actually. In Indiana, they always put their tree up the day after Thanksgiving. It was a big event. Not nice or anything, nothing ever was. But they lit candles around the Nativity scene and his mother made truly horrible eggnog out of skim milk, cheap rum, and grocery store cinnamon, heated up in the microwave. Then they listened to choral versions of Silent Night on his dad’s old record player until the drunks passed out. Well, they did, until the year Earl, Sr. smashed it against the wall. Not much of a loss. In any case, they never listened to Joni Mitchell, that was for damn sure.

(Fuck Indiana. Fuck Christmas. Fuck everything.)

He was so trapped in another goddamn _ reverie _ (Q liked that word, he used it a lot,) that he didn’t even notice the soft figure slide into the sand next to him, with a flutter of fabric and a slightly nasal cough.

There was no preamble before she asked—

“Can I tell you how my brother died?” 

Alice’s voice cut through the heavy night with precision. He turned his face toward her, chin resting against his shoulder. She looked pretty in the blinking light, in her soft pink dress and stick-straight hair. Her blue eyes were serious and sparking out toward the water, her fingers clasped against each other in her lap. Her knee touched his and he could almost remember why he had thought bringing her along to Spain had been a great idea. Why he had ever cared to begin with.

In reality, though, all he wanted was another drink. But conversations required reciprocity. He couldn’t very well ignore her. He couldn’t be rude.

Eliot offered back a hollow smile. “Your ice breakers are a thing of beauty, my dear.”

“I’m serious, Eliot. I’d like to share with you,” she said, still looking away from him and out toward the horizon. “If you’ll allow me.”

A bubble of affection burst in his chest and he sighed at his own weakness. Alice was—Alice was wonderful. She was kind. She had been a good friend. He was being a dick. She didn’t deserve to carry his bullshit. No one did. 

(But that had never stopped him before.)

Instead of answering verbally, he waved her on and she started talking. She told him about a kind young man, the only one who guided her in a world of chaos. She told him about his mysterious disappearance, his first year at Brakebills. About how she had searched tirelessly, for years, promising herself she would never walk through the wards. About how she became so desperate that she skipped over the entrance exam to confront Fogg, only to find herself face-to-face with her brother’s indirect killer, a sexual predator who made his one student feel so awful that she took drastic measures to win his favor. About how Mayakovsky didn’t reveal this—or reveal that he absolutely knew all this—until she had done all his work for him, nearly a year into their working relationship.

Eliot couldn’t breathe.

“I lost the only person who loved me. The only person I loved,” Alice said, her voice coarse gravel. “He’s gone because of magic. It destroyed him. Worse than death. Mayakovsky said that his soul was fractured, that a fundamental piece is missing. Forever.”

“How?” Eliot asked into the firelight, off in the distance. 

Alice clenched her jaw. “He became—do you know what a Niffin is?”

Eliot’s eyes burned and his teeth shook. 

“Yes.” He managed to say. It was all he could say.

“I hate magic,” Alice said, trailing her fingers through the cool sand. “I hate it. But I have to learn to control it. I have to learn why I can’t—why I can’t let it go. Why it consumes me.”

“I understand that,” Eliot said, slow and careful. Dripping, but without his usual heat. His instinct to connect was overpowering and he continued without really even meaning to. “The first time I used magic, I murdered someone. He was crushed to death by a school bus that I telekinetically threw at him. Or maybe I threw him at the bus. Minor details, I suppose.”

“How old were you?” Alice asked, all clinical. She entirely skipped over the emotional aspect. Eliot was grateful.

“Fourteen.”

“That’s relatively young for passive energy to turn active,” Alice said, cutting a glance at him. “You must be powerful.”

Eliot nodded, grave. “I am. But I—keep some of it at bay.”

He shook his flask and Alice’s understanding almost audibly clicked in place. Eliot wasn’t really sure why he was telling her this. He felt like it was important that she knew. That she knew that he understood, but that didn’t mean—

It didn’t mean he was okay with any of it.

“It’s safer that way,” Eliot said, still smoking. He wanted this part to land. “So I don’t ever hurt anyone ever again.”

Alice took a hard gulp of air and nodded. “Me too. So I never hurt anyone. I’d never forgive myself.” 

“Then you understand too,” he said, leaning back on his hands. She didn’t answer that.

The sky above them was still too neon. With an urgent pull on his heart, he missed the stars. The night sky over Brakebills was always a thing of celestial wonder. He wasn’t a nature person, either in discipline or personal preference—like, fucking _ fuck _camping, seriously—but he loved seeing the stars. Encanto Oculto wanted to keep everyone secluded, to make them forget reality. But wasn’t there beauty in reality too? Wasn’t there something even more precious in the found, rare beauty contrasted with all the difficulty, all the bullshit?

(He was way too sober.)

“There are—” Alice licked her lips and stared into the sea. “There are other ways to control it, Eliot. Instead of alcohol or drugs, you could—”

Nope. Fuck off. He held his hand up and spoke, monotone. “Thank you, but I’m not looking for advice.”

She took a long breath and steeled her eyes at him. “It’ll catch up with you, eventually, and you’ll need more and more—”

“Stop talking, Alice.” Eliot didn’t mean to be too harsh. But it was new lips, same shit. “This isn’t open for discussion. Do you understand?”

Alice stared at him for a few more moments before nodding her head terse. She brushed her hair back and sat up straight, pulling herself onto her knees. She let out a gentle huff of air and turned toward him, chest out and eyes serious.

“Kady uses meditation and martial arts training,” she finally said and Eliot’s chest roared in turn. But he simply smoked and smoked, lips twisting into something sharp and angry, even in their facsimile of a smile.

“I was wondering if you were going to address it directly,” he said, blowing smoke rings. “Good for you. Ballsier.”

Alice audibly ground her teeth and she snorted, unshaken. “I know you don’t approve.”

Eliot actually laughed at that. Like he was her father, standing at the door with a rifle. Wagging his finger at Kady and saying, _ You get my little girl home by nine o’clock sharp or there’ll be hell to pay! _ It was such an oversimplification of the situation. It wasn’t entirely her fault—Alice hadn’t been there, she hadn’t experienced it firsthand. But still, she was supposed to be better than this.

“Jesus. That’s—not how I would put it,” he said, putting out his cigarette in the sand. He sent it off to that mystical world of cigarette butts. Hopefully no one lived there. “Did you even listen at all to what I told you about her?”

“I took it under advisement. I asked her about it,” Alice said, clinical as ever. “She directed me toward Quentin. So I spoke with him and asked for his blessing.”

Inappropriately, Eliot laughed, a real thing. He couldn’t help it, his eyes sparkling over at her. “For his _ blessing _?”

“Yes,” Alice said, face pinched. She let out a heavy sigh and pressed her lips into a firm line. “He also thought the phrasing was humorous.”

Eliot snorted again and even smiled. He could picture Quentin’s baffled face slowly morphing into a grin, replete with his full dimples and discerning eyes as Alice stood in front of his him, hands clasped, lip worried between her teeth, and eyebrows wavering in her uncertainty. But the image passed as quickly as it came, and uncomfortable silence was all that remained. The waves were gentle and not nearly enough distraction.

“But he did tell me everything, in the end,” Alice said, softly. 

“I’m sure he did,” Eliot said with a snort. Well, at least that explained that, he figured. They weren’t fucking so much as engaging in a share of information. Honestly, he wasn’t sure which one he preferred. At the same time, Alice licked her lips and took a breath.

“He also told me he has no problem with me dating Kady because he believes it’s our actions _ after _ we do stupid shit that define us, rather than the stupid shit itself,” she said, quickly and firmly, fists clenched in the sand. “Because everyone does stupid shit sometimes.”

Again, Eliot’s lips quirked up against his will. “That sounds more like a Coldwater original than a Quinn paraphrase.”

She nodded in confirmation. “He’s not the most eloquent person I’ve ever met.” 

He wasn’t. Eliot liked it. Though sometimes, Quentin could surprise people. He liked that too.

“He also said he thinks she’s trying really hard,” Alice said, staring at him meaningfully, trying to let her words imply all that she wasn’t saying directly, “but that a lot of people can’t see it.”

Eliot lit another cigarette, staring out into the sea. It glittered with lights. “That’s great, but Q isn’t objective.”

Alice shrugged and smiled, more to herself. “He said the same about you. Well, he called you a _ stubborn ass _ which I think is about equivalent.”

Of course he did. He opened his mouth to retort, but the words disintegrated. He was so tired. He wanted to go home. He hated that he wanted to go home. Alice took a deep breath and took Eliot’s hand, her gentle fingers tracing over and around his many rings. He didn’t stop her, but he didn’t engage either.

He was so fucking tired.

“I know people aren’t all good, okay? I know they may not even be good at all,” she said, her voice thick with feeling. She sniffed and Eliot looked up at her red eyes. “I am operating under no illusions. I’m not—I’m not like Q, you know? I can’t always keep believing and believing. I don’t even know if I can believe to begin with, most of the time. I don’t know how he does it.”

A lump formed hot in his throat and he nodded, suddenly unable to look at her. She saw too much. Becoming her friend was a mistake. 

“Me neither,” he said, croaking out his understatement. He smoked. His hand trembled for his flask and he pulled it to his lips, drinking as much as he could in a single pull. Alice tightened her grip on his hand, squeezing warmth and affection into his palm. 

Becoming her friend was a mistake. But it was too late.

“But if I can’t—if I can’t try to make a connection with someone, if I can’t accept them for who they are, all of it, then I’m never going to live,” Alice said, tears falling in earnest. She wiped her cheeks with the back of her free hand and let out a wild, inappropriate laugh. “It’s not that I need to take chances on other people. Fuck other people.”

Finally, something relatable. He glanced over at her and nodded, with a sarcastic smile. 

Encouraged because she was about as good at social cues as Quentin, Alice pulled herself up, eyes alight. “But I do need to take a chance on myself and what I want. Otherwise, I’ll stay static my whole life, Eliot. I’ll stay lonely my whole life.”

His sarcastic smile softened and he sighed, pulling her hand up to his lips. He kissed them once as his brain turned all around, uncertain. Then, decision made, he tilted his head and clicked his tongue at her, the silly little thing.

“Or you’re just making justifications,” he said, eyebrows raising with the corners of his mouth, like they were gossiping, “so you can get good and fucked.”

She dropped his hand cold. “That is _ not—“ _

He cut her off with a laugh, waving his hand in the air, blithe as ever. 

“God. Please, no judgment from me, truly. Get yours,” he said, blowing more smoke rings and grinning at her fallen face. Then he sharpened his teeth, so slightly, without losing his air of Not Giving a Shit. “But let’s not kid ourselves with the high-minded horseshit, alright? We’re all smarter than that, Ms. Quinn.”

Alice sat there, stricken. Her face was paler than it had been on Dalt Vila, and she pushed her glasses up her nose, solely a nervous habit. She stood up, abrupt and kicking up sand in her movement. She brushed off her skirt and stared down at Eliot, her eyes dark and unreadable. 

Once again, she looked like the most dangerous person in the world. Good for her.

“Have a good night, Eliot,” she said, barely above a whisper. But it may as well have been a shout across worlds. Obviously, he had made his point.

(He hated himself.)

Eliot offered a lazy wave toward her retreating form, but he knew she didn’t see. He kept waving, until she was but a dot in the distance, and he was left with nothing but his thoughts. His eyes closed as his head pounded.

_ “El, sweetie,” Margo said, smoothing her hand over his brow. He was sweating and pallid, run ragged from the exhaustion of fighting the telekinesis, the one he was going to use against Kady. He was going to use it against Kady. He was everything he promised himself he would never be. He was drunk too. Real, real drunk. Had to control it. _

_ Margo was still talking. Why was she still talking? “El, they’re letting us go to the infirmary now. They have news about Q.” _

_ No, no, no. God, no. He couldn’t. Please. _

_ “Can’t go,” Eliot moaned, head rolling to the side. Dead weight. “Don’t wanna go. Gonna stay here.” _

_ Margo’s nails were sharp in his arm. “You will hate yourself if you’re not there when he wakes up. Get your ass in gear. This isn’t about you.” _

_ His face fell down, chin to chest. He wished his head would roll off and away, out of his misery. “Yes, it is. It’s my fault.” _

_ “How the fuck do you figure that?” Margo wasn’t patient right now. She never was. But especially not now. Why couldn’t she ever be patient with him? _

_ “I gave her the truth serum. I didn’t even really _ give a shit _ ,” he admitted with a sob, because Quentin had been right, he didn’t care, he didn’t care, he was just proving a dick point, “but I kept pushing her, even when I saw that she was getting agitated because—because it’s always felt like she _ wanted _ to _ hurt _ my only two people and—“ _

_ “El.” _

_ “—and I’m an asshole. And I was such an asshole to Q because I’m a dick and hurting people is what I do and—and what if that’s it? What if—? I just—it’s my fault, it’s my fault, I fucked up—“ _

_ “Eliot, look at me,” Bambi forced his chin into her hand, giant eyes blazing into his. “This is _ not _ your fault. Got it? Do not go down that spiral on me. It was an accident.” _

_ She didn’t get it. She was there, but she hadn’t really been there. Not like Eliot had been. She hadn’t been involved. _

_ “I’m the one she was pissed at, Margo,” he said quietly. His hands were bound. It had been Todd, who had done it without hesitation. He didn’t think he had it in him. “I’m the one who—it wasn’t supposed to be Q.” _

_ “It wasn’t supposed to be anyone, El,” Margo said, softer than soft. He didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve anyone. He was such a fuck up. “It was an accident.” _

_ He couldn’t breathe. _

_ “But what if it’s bad news?” Eliot couldn’t feel his tongue. Margo’s hand was icy in his. “If I stay here and it’s bad news, then I’ll never hear it—I won’t hear it—and that’s better—it’s better—” _

_ “Hey,” Margo said, cupping his face. His eyes were unfocused but he could almost see her. “I’ll be with you the whole time. No matter what. But it’s gonna be okay, El. I promise.” _

_ He was shaking too much. Head, shoulders, legs. Hands too, even under the bind. “He’s my—” _

_ “I know, sweetie.” _

_ He stopped shaking. He stared straight at her. She looked awful. He probably looked awful too. Didn’t give a shit. _

_ “No, you don’t,” Eliot choked out. He didn’t recognize his own voice. “You don’t know. He’s my— He’s my—” _

_ “Eliot,” Margo said, pleading. Her eyes were filled with tears and she stroked his face like it was precious. “I know.” _

_ Then the disembodied voice that sounded like his. But it couldn’t be. _

_ “I love him, Margo. I love him so much. I—I don’t know what I would do if anything—I love him. I love him.” _

_ “El. Honey. We gotta go.” _

_ The voice kept talking. _

_ “I’ve never—never, in my life, had someone like him, someone so—someone so everything. And I know I’m not—not for him. But. God, I love him.” _

_ Bambi sighed. “I’m going to sober charm you once you’re on your feet, okay?” _

_ “Margo. I’m trying to tell you—” _

_ “Jesus, I know. Okay? I’ve known for awhile,” she barked out, impatient and giving the voice no space, no room. Maybe it didn’t deserve it. “We’ll figure it out later, but right now, I need you to stand the fuck up. That’s what Q needs too.” _

_ He didn’t remember standing. He didn’t feel his legs. But Margo’s encouragement told him that he did, and that it was good. _

_ “That’s it, baby, lean on me—” _

With a trail of sparkling dazzle, the sky over Encanto Oculto broke and so did all of his thoughts, shattered over the beach with the remnants of his control. The crowd in the distance cheered and sparklers lit up the night, from the revelers paying homage. It meant the week was officially over, and all that remained were the muted stars, hiding away in clouds.

So Eliot put out his cigarette and stood the fuck up.

* * *

tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dipping my toe enthusiastically into Tumblr: @HMGfanfic, if you feel like chatting about this damn show and/or fic writing.


	7. Badly Done, Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, whoa, there are actually a couple of Jane Austen references in this one. *self-high five* 
> 
> So I didn’t think I’d end up doing split chapters this go around, but it happened because, well... this one was creeping up and beyond ~40K words long. Yikes. Hence, sanity for everyone, the author included. Hooray! In any case, the second part should be up in a few days, no more than a week. Fair warning, they’re both doozies in different ways. Sorryloveyoubye.
> 
> (If you’re celebrating stuff this week, hope you have a good one. If not, the same. <3)

** _Brakebills University, December 17, 2016_ **

** _*_ **

**(Part Six of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: “Actions” Have “Consequences”)**

* * *

** _But First, A Remembrance,  
_ ** **Early May 2016**

* * *

_ Eliot found the last shard of broken glass on the piano keys. _

_ Sitting down at the bench, he swept his hands across the yellowing ivory, preparing to play something soft, something melancholy. Something that would fit the quiet late night-early morning air, to commemorate finishing his task at long last. Instead, the jagged point surprised him with a prick at the side of his middle finger _ _ . With a low curse, he snapped the wound up to his lips, a shallow but stinging puncture. _ _ Sucking at the pain for a few seconds, he took a breath and reached down, plucking the piece of purple glass up to the dim light. _

_ It was from one of the painted mosaics, ready to _ _ be reunited _ _ with its family. _

_ Closing his eyes, Eliot sent it off to the side and it melded in with the swirled patterns from whence it came, closing with precision. _ _Exhaustion overtook him at the spell’s finish and his chin fell to his chest, disheveled curls falling like a wave._ _His forearms slammed on the keys and the clanging music filled the sleeping Cottage, a loud and dissonant startle_ _. Oh well. _

_ (“I can actually play something, you know,” Quentin once said, in the middle of the night. He sat down and stretched his fingers out, like a virtuoso preparing his masterpiece. He only received_ _ Eliot’s wry eyebrow raise as a response. _

_ Still, Q smiled up, the lines of his dimples making him impish as ever. “It took me forever to learn.” _

_ “Is that so?” Eliot leaned against the side of the instrument, his heart aching at Quentin’s excitement.  
_

_Well, if he was honest, his heart always ached with _ something _ about Quentin. But that time, he _ _ really _ _ felt it. He imagined it was a _ _ similar sensation to _ _ chronic pain. The symptoms were always there, sometimes almost neutral or numb. You learned to live with it as background note, even as it slowed everything down, made you a little less discerning, a little less able to stay focused. _ _ But every now and then, the acuteness caught you off-guard and rendered you to your knees, defenseless _ _ . _

_ That was Eliot, that night. Weakness acknowledged. _

_ “Sure is,” Q said in reply, trying to lift his own single eyebrow and _ _ spectacularly _ _ failing. It wasn’t a skill everyone was capable of, but Eliot would kill a man who told him that. “Wanna hear?” _

_ “ _ _ Obviously _ _ ,” he said, only allowing a half-smile to creep out. “Rock me, Amadeus.” _

_ Without another word and with every ounce of seriousness in his moody body, Quentin placed his hands on the keys and sat up straight, form not too bad _ _ . _ _ He worried his lip between his teeth for a few moments, pensive, before he banged out several low, staccato notes _ _ . _

_ Then he hit a few chords of all black keys. Then he returned back to the staccato white notes. He went back and forth with more intensity and fervor, as the song turned more melodic and even more recognizable _ _ . _ _ His deft hands, the ones capable of more beautiful magic than he ever gave himself credit for, moved across the keys with purpose, if not finesse _ _ . At the crest of the song, his eyes closed and he smiled, and Eliot felt like he was going to die, _ _ happily _ _ breathless. _

_ Quentin was playing the Darth Vader theme song from Star Wars, and with every dark and spry note, Eliot’s heart ached, ached, ached _ _ . He wanted to wrap himself behind him, brush his lips against his ear, and say, _ Stay with me, sweetheart. _ He couldn’t really remember what was stopping him. _

_ “Shit-goddamn,” Quentin’s loud swear broke his thoughts and the moment, as his fingers stuttered against the keys in a fucked up chord. He shook his head as he stopped _ _ abruptly _ _ , laughing with a careless shrug. “Well, that’s all I remember. Not too shabby though, right?” _

_ And Eliot had _ _ just _ _ smiled, rolling his eyes and grinning at him, before changing the subject _ _ .) _

_ Everything was too cold. _

_ The low lit and sleeping Cottage always reminded Eliot of Quentin, even when his every waking moment wasn’t plagued with thoughts of him _ _ . _ _ Most nights, or mornings, perspective pending, creatures may not have stirred, but Coldwaters sure did _ _ . _ _ The pacing shuffle of thick socks and loose-fit pajamas, the screech of a tea kettle, the obsessive muttering of spells under anxious breaths—that was the true soundtrack of the Cottage, after hours _ _ . The parties couldn’t hold a candle. _

_ Of course, Eliot _ _ personally _ _ cleaned up the Cottage, from top to bottom, in the days after. _

_ Fogg had tried to send a group of professional amateurs to do the work, but Eliot had negotiated them away. He had been insistent that _ he _ was going to be the one to care for his own goddamn home _ _ . But he hadn’t _ _ totally _ _ thought the decision through, it turned out, since it hadn’t been as easy as he hoped. _ _ He was kind of shitty at detail spells, which was the majority of the work. Go figure. At the same time, he would have rather served all the pieces of broken debris as garnishes in his next signature cocktail than have a single part of their home be out of place when Quentin _ _ was released _ _ from the infirmary _ _ . So he stuck with it, piece by painful piece. _

_ Either way, it _ _ was done _ _ , _ _ all of _ _ it, but his fingers still itched to mend. To take what _ _ was broken _ _ and fix it. He knew it wasn’t his strong suit, but he also knew that he had to fucking try, for once in his goddamn worthless life. He owed that to the Cottage, to his home. He owed it to Q, who deserved exactly none of this. _

_But with a lack of better options to fill the void at his disposal, Eliot stood up and walked over to the bar. He grabbed as many glasses as he could and arranged them __in a perfect line, good little soldiers._ _Next, he pulled out three shakers and called over a selection of bitters, a bottle of good vodka, and his favorite bourbon__. __After he set them all to work, __automatically__ pouring in perfect lines, he went about the selection of mixers and garnishes, citrus and herbs, all preserved and ready for his expertise, his magic, his—_

_ The stairs creaked tell-tale, and a vision in a long white robe rested her hand on the railing, sleepsoft and barefaced _ _ . Her big eyes were dark and concerned when they landed on him and he felt her sigh as much as he heard it. _

_ “El, honey, it’s four in the morning,” Margo said, raking her hair back and using her fingernails to extract a tangle. She yawned. “You need to go to bed.” _

_ He didn’t look up from his thyme, _ _ painstakingly _ _ separating each dried leaf. “Almost done.” _

_ Margo _ _ slowly _ _ wrapped her way around the quiet corners of the walls and tables and couches, all fixed, all the same _ _ . She put her hand on his cheek, trying to get him to look up. “It looks great. Better than before. Time to rest.” _

_ “ _ _ Obviously _ _ it looks great,” Eliot said, not giving into her implicit request. He let out an airy laugh, because that’s what he did. “But I also realized I’ve been remiss in not planning some actual fun too. So we’ll have a soirée tomorrow.” _

_ Margo groaned, a frustrated little sound. _

_ “A party?” She said, her hands going onto her hips, their natural habitat. “Eliot.” _

_ He smiled up at her, catching his second wind. He held his hands aloft, as the concept came to him in broad strokes. “I’m calling it _ We’re Glad You’re Not Dead: A Celebration of Quentin M. Coldwater _ .” _

_ Her lips slid down into a straight line, pulling her eyes into exasperation. “Jesus, El.” _

_ “Too dark?” _ _ He brushed the pieces of herb into his hand and gathered them in the crease of his palm, before sliding them into a shot glass _ _ . He’d save them for later. “I was going for cheeky irreverence.” _

_ But Margo wasn’t interested in talking about his party ideas. Instead, she took his hand and led him away from the bar and over to the couch. Sitting down at his Bambi’s command, he still managed to roll his eyes when she started to cover him with a blanket. He wasn’t an overtired toddler. If he wanted to go to bed, he would have gone to goddamn bed. _

_ “You haven’t slept in a week,” Margo said, cool hand laying flat on the crook of his shoulder, exposed as his silk robe started to slide down _ _ . She rubbed at a spot of tension and he had to admit it felt good. It had been burning for awhile. “Q will understand if it’s lowkey here when he gets back. I doubt he’ll even be up for—“ _

_ Eliot set his jaw and looked away from her. She didn’t get it. “I have to do something.” _

_ “You’ve done enough,” Bambi pleaded, scratching at the hairs at the nape of his neck. “He knows, sweetie.” _

_He shook his head, quick and tight. She didn’t get it. She’d never get it. But her hands kept rubbing his back and his eyes closed despite himself. He __really_ _was tired__. It had been the longest week of his life, but he wasn’t sure he deserved—_

_ “Okay, dead end, I guess,” Margo said, her voice shifting from concern to brass tacks. “Fine. What’s your plan then?” _

_ Eliot frowned and craned his neck to look at her, _ _ genuinely _ _ not following. “Plan?” _

_ “With Quentin.” _

_ She said it like he _ _ was supposed _ _ to know what the fuck she was talking about. His heart hurt for a moment with how out of sync they had become. He once knew what every tiny shift on her face meant, but now? It was like a foreign language put through a shitty translator, at best. Sometimes, anyway. _

_ “Look around, Bambi,” he said _ _ slowly _ _ , indicating the cleaned up Cottage and the streams of alcohol pouring into shakers _ _ . Her face fell, unamused. _

_ “So we’re just not gonna talk about it?” Margo asked, her eyes wide and ironic. _

_ A spike of panic shot his heart rate up. He growled more than spoke and he snapped his eyes away from her. “Talk about what?” _

_ “Cut the crap, asshole,” she said, finally sounding like herself. Her lips twisted into a characteristic scowl and he could have kissed her, if she wasn’t talking about, well. “You told me a week ago that you quote-unquote _ lo— _ “ _

_ Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. _

_ “Good god, Margo,” Eliot laughed out, half-hysterical. He pushed off the couch, blanket falling in a heap where his feet were. “What the fuck? Friends do not throw friends’ drunken nonsense back in their face. It’s the eleventh commandment.” _

_ But Margo gave no quarter. “Sure, when it’s actually nonsense. But your head has been so far up your own twat for too fucking long. Time to ovary up.” _

_ Eliot snarled and reached in his pocket for a cigarette, without other response. _ _ Bambi pulled her legs up on the couch and tucked them under her, all yoga flexibility and rare heartbreaking earnestness gazing up at him _ _ . He kind of hated that his instinct was to seek and destroy it, so that she gave him nothing but her cool cynicism. That was what he was comfortable with. That was what he wanted. And he was who he was, and she knew that. _

_ She just kind of wasn’t acting like she knew that, at the moment. _

_ “Sweetie, why wouldn’t you—?” She closed her mouth _ _ quickly _ _ , changing tactics. “Do you trust Quentin?” _

_ What a stupid question. _

_ “With my life,” he said, finally lighting the tip of his cigarette and letting the smoke burn. “But that’s irrelevant.” _

_ “Your life,” Margo repeated, folding her hands on her lap. “But not your heart?” _

_ She _ _ really _ _ didn’t fucking get it. She would never get it. It wasn’t about Q. It would never be about Q. Even _ if _ Quentin were insane enough to want him—which, by the way, he _ didn’t. _ T _ _ here was literally no _ _ indication _ _ that he saw Eliot as anything more than a good friend, as he was _ _ acutely _ _ reminded every day _ _ . But even in that mystical _ if, if, if, _ it wouldn’t be so simple. Never could be, never would be. _

_ Of course, he said none of that. Instead, he blew a cloud of smoke her way, no party tricks. Just frustration. _

_ “Who the fuck are you?” Eliot narrowed his eyes at her, shaking his head. “Like, what the fuck is this conversation?” _

_ Margo leaned forward on her palms, stretching out like a tiger ready to pounce. Her whispered words were more terrifying than the many times a day she screamed. “Excuse me for giving a shit about your happiness.” _

_ He actually laughed at that, no pretense. The laughter grew so strong that tears started pricking at his eyes, hot and wild. _ _ Maybe _ _ he was too tired for this. _ _ Maybe _ _ he _ _ really _ _ should go the fuck to bed and approach the day with semi-refreshed eyes. Because right now, all he could see was the fucking audacity of her and he _ hated _ her for it. _

_ “My happiness. Good one,” Eliot said, smoking and smoking. Margo’s face was stone. “If you _ _ really _ _ give a shit about my _ happiness _ , you will drop this like an album on a Tuesday, got it?” _

_ Her lips _ _ barely _ _ twitched but otherwise her expression remained unmoved. “Do you love Quentin?” _

_ He ran his tongue over his teeth and stared off at the bar. He should _ _ just _ _ drink the whole bottle of bourbon. “Goddammit, Margo.” _

_ “Do you?” Her eyes were so wide and so bright. They hurt to look at. So he didn’t. _

_ “You’re going to force me to talk about this?” Eliot could _ _ barely _ _ hear his own words. “ _ _ Really _ _ ?” _

_ “Yes.” She was a stone-cold bitch. He chuckled out the side of his mouth, even though nothing was funny. Smoke rose from his lips, wisping outward and up into the ceiling, where it wouldn’t stain. Hooray for magic. _

_ “This reeks of Julia’s influence,” Eliot said, aiming for _ _ archly _ _ nonchalant. It came out more strained and sour. “For the record.” _

_ “Tough shit,” Margo snorted, not a denial. “Answer the question.” _

_ Eliot licked his dry lips and smoked, pacing in a circle. He fussed with the tie around his waist, scratched his chest hair. Looked down at his shoes, frowning at a small scuff he’d have to take care of later. His jaw muscles were so tight they were about to snap. He sympathized with Raymond’s TMJ for the first time. But as much as his jaw hurt, the silence across the Cottage was even more painful to his nerve-endings. Margo had much more patience for empty space than he did. _

_ So he broke first, always terrible at chicken. His exuded calm was the most flimsy of his facades. _

_ “I—care a lot about Quentin,” Eliot said, quiet and slow, monologuing to the scuff. “He is a good friend of mine and I also happen to sometimes think he’s the tiniest bit fuckable. In an especially tense situation, it evolved into some _ _ unseemly _ _ emotional vomit. But I’m… _ _ mostly _ _ sober and level-headed now, and I’m telling you I didn’t mean it. So back off, okay?” _

_ He met her eyes again on the last word, begging her from the deepest pit of his cold and dead heart to _ _ just _ _ fucking listen for the first time in her life _ _ . _ _ But based on the sharp spark of annoyance in her eyes and the low growl of frustration from the back of her throat, he was in for no such luck _ _ . _

_ “Satan on a goddamn saltine, the fucking mires you twist your brain into,” Margo said, leaning back on the couch into a seated power stance, crossing her legs and her arms _ _ . She flashed her face up at him, doom and gloom. “This shit is going to catch up with you, sooner or later.” _

_ With a haughty and curt flourish, Eliot turned to her and bowed, arms stretched wide and cigarette smoldering _ _ . “I’d like to see it try.” _

_ Point made, he strode away from her, all confidence and swagger. But Margo’s voice—his favorite sound in the world—froze him where he stood. _

_ “You’re better than this, El.” _

_ “No, I’m not,” Eliot said, turning on his heels and snapping his neck at her. He sucked down the last of the smoke and stabbed it into a nearby ashtray, not bothering with magic. “This is who I am. Sorry if it’s not enough for you.” _

_ She didn’t stop him after that. _

_ (Later, at the party, Margo would drape herself all over him and they’d giggle over a joint filled with Hoberman’s weed. Because that’s what they did and that was who they were _ _ . _ _ Then even later, Eliot would wrap his arm around a still too-pale Quentin and ask him what he thought of the party’s name—if it was too macabre—and Q would shrug and say, “I mean, I'm a cynical bastard deep, so it takes a lot to shock me _ _ . I like it.” _

_ And Eliot’s heart would ache, ache, _ ache _ .) _

* * *

** _The Present,  
_ ** _ **Where One Should Remain Focused** _ ****

* * *

Eliot wasn’t sure who said, “One cannot have too large a party; a large party secures its own amusement,” but he wholeheartedly agreed. The coming together of people, music, spectacle, energy, _ potential _—all of it brewed together for an ineffable chemistry that set his veins alight, with anticipation and good humor. Outside of the bedroom, nothing excited him more than the hope and suspense of a huge party, one where he was the elegant ringleader, the puppetmaster of delight. As far as he was concerned, it could cure any ill. Hence, it was especially pertinent to throw a party during times of crisis, when general amusement was most threatened. 

And, uh, well…

Things weren’t great.

To be fair, they also weren’t necessarily _ bad _. 

Everything was—fine. It was normal. Mostly. At least, it seemed as though life was going on automatically. There was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary occurring, even within the context of their definitionally extraordinary lives. There was nothing to write home about, but nothing worthy of complaint either. It was—fine. Fine. Totally fine.

But Eliot knew, down in his quaking bones through years of honed instincts, that it was an eerie level of _ fine _. It was like when the clouds were forming in the far off distance, even though the sun was still shining on the cornfield. It glinted everything in a haze of gold, serene and almost beautiful, if you were into that pastoral Wyeth shit. Butall the while, lurking on the edges, the asshole farm cat—yellow tabby, scrawny, and feral—would walk around in crazed, frantic circles, hissing at nothing with its haunches raised.

Storm was brewing and everyone should take heed.

Thankfully, again, due to his well-developed intuition for that sort of thing, Eliot also knew where the danger was most acute and where he needed to watch his step. The storm, if it seemed to originate anywhere, was radiating in waves off Alice Quinn. She was deep in a gross and giddy honeymoon phase with Kady Orloff-Diaz, yet painted a stark and terrifying figure every time she met eyes with Eliot. The bright blue was dark and stern, almost feline in their slanted fury. He hadn’t yet worked up the courage to speak to her, because he didn’t totally trust her not to blast his synapses out with laser sharp look. 

Rightfully so, perhaps. 

But still, it had been almost three weeks since Ibiza, with no sign of improvement. Guilt had made its home in his heart, for so many reasons. But the cold front with Alice was the worst of it.

(Well, almost. But he wasn’t thinking about the other thing if he could help it. He needed to function.)

In any case, something had to give and so, Eliot decided it would be him and that his gift would be: a perfect party. Not necessarily only for Alice—again, valuing the sanctity of life and limb—but also to smooth over the sharp edges that had crept up and made things too uncomfortable, for everyone. It was no way to live.

Muddling a syrupy mix of mint and sugar, he nodded to himself from the bar area, temporarily turned to face his friends. The two of them were sitting together on the couch, not quite cuddling, both reading scholarly analyses of the failures of alchemy and occasionally speaking in low tones to one another. Glancing away before either of them caught him staring, he calcified his belief that he was focusing his energies in the right place. 

What else could he do, really?

After the julep’s base was settled in a crystal glass, Eliot got to work crushing the ice. He always liked to give every party a signature drink to complement the Signature Cocktail. It was a silly novelty maybe, but people enjoyed it. Meanwhile, from the couch, his friends stirred, speaking louder and louder, drawing more attention to themselves. He kept his focus for as long as he could, until his eyes finally lifted up just under his lashes, gaze like a magnet.

“You’re misremembering,” Julia said, a quiet little smirk reaching all the way up to her eyes as Quentin leaned back against her knees. As she expected, he made a loud noise of protest and dipped his head back, glaring at her upside down. Her eyes sparked as she giggled at him.

“Uh, no,” he said, affronted, with pulled down lips. “I’ve never misremembered anything in my whole dang life.”

Eliot’s heart fluttered and he swallowed, looking back at the ice. _ Dang. _Goddamn.

“Well, you just popped your cherry then,” Julia said, pulling Quentin’s hair into her hands and twisting it into a topknot, “because I am ten-thousand percent certain that Rupert’s favorite tree was a maple, not an elm.”

“Except elms in and around Cornwall were way more common during that point in history than fucking maples,” Quentin said, sitting up and shaking his hair loose. He pushed at her shoulder, like an annoyed little brother. “At least they were, until they all disappeared because of a plague.”

“Wait, what?” Julia scrunched her nose. “All the elm trees disappeared in Cornwall?”

Quentin sat up and took a sip of his tea, before hissing and jolting backwards. Burnt tongue. “Yeah.”

“_ All _ of them?” Julia said, again. She shook her head, like it was overloaded. “From a plague?”

“Yeah, all of them. Well, all of the Cornish Elms, at least,” Quentin said, waving his hands in the air as he processed through the information. “It was, uh, back in the late sixties, early seventies, give or take. From a beetle-carried fungus, uh, called Dutch elm disease.”

Eliot never thought that his heart would feel like falling out of his chest at the words _ beetle-carried fungus _, but that was apparently where he was at in his life. A real low point. 

On the other hand, it was also the most he’d heard Quentin’s voice in weeks, so...

So.

“Seriously? That’s really sad,” Julia tucked her hair behind her ears and frowned, a distant look in her eyes. But then she grinned, eyes sliding back over at Q. “I still think you’re misremembering.”

On cue, Quentin threw his hands in the air. “I’m not fucking misremembering, Jules.”

Just as Julia started to let out a bright laugh in earnest, the Cottage door swung open. Margo strutted her way in, dressed in fur and velvet, her favorite way to celebrate the upcoming holidays. She gave a tiny wave and flounced her hair back, as she stood on her tip-toes to plant a quick kiss on Eliot’s cheek.

“Focused,” he said, indicating the cocktail materials, as he pressed an even quicker kiss to the side of her mouth. 

Amused, she waved him off, before finally turning toward her girlfriend and Q. But before she could say anything, Julia sat up straight and put her hands on her knees, urgent.

“Margo,” Julia said, half breathless. Bambi pouted her lips and leaned over, a modern Marilyn Monroe.

“Julia,” she said, in the same tone. But Julia didn’t play along, biting her lip, eyes wide and fervent.

“Did you know that in the sixties, all of the elm trees disappeared from Cornwall because of a plague?” She said quickly, pointing at Quentin. He gave a quick wave at Margo, as a hello, and a nod in acknowledgment at what Julia was saying. “Isn’t that the most awful thing you’ve ever heard?”

Shocking no one except maybe Julia, it was not the most awful thing Bambi had ever heard. She snorted and rolled her eyes, flopping down in the armchair closest to Eliot and arching a brow right at Julia.

“Oh, no,” Margo said, deadpan. “Dead trees. Boo-hoo.”

“Mmm, you’re so _ tough _,” Julia purred, stretching her leg out to lightly kick against Margo’s ankle. “You’re like Clint Eastwood in a movie directed by Clint Eastwood.”

“Aw, babe,” Margo pouted, hands to her heart, before her lips curled into a smile. “Don’t get sappy in front of the boys.”

Julia winked and blew her a kiss because they were the absolute fucking worst. Eliot poured an ounce and a half of the good bourbon into the glass. Then he frowned, remembering that juleps were supposed to go in stainless steel cups, not crystal. Shit. He was distracted—off his game.

Meanwhile, Julia was going full-blown Quentin, bouncing her feet as she spoke, to Margo’s equally exasperated and pleased tiny smile. 

“But really, Margo,” she implored, “think about the history, the beauty, in this one tiny place, in this freak occurrence—“

“Actually, it’s not freak,” Quentin said as he finally swallowed a gulp of his tea, one pedantic finger in the air. “It’s pretty widespread.”

Julia’s face fell and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Seriously?”

Margo groaned and launched a throw pillow right at Quentin’s face, which bounced off his confused nose with a thud onto the ground. He frowned, big wide eyes blinking owlishly at Margo, surprised and maybe not a little hurt. 

Eliot chugged his whole failed creation, vowing to start over. Not like he was going to waste perfectly good booze.

“Q, you gotta stop telling her depressing facts,” Margo said, slowly, like she was speaking to a toddler. “You’re killin’ me, man.”

“But it’s not depressing, it’s interesting,” Quentin said, face brightening as he held his hands out, twisting around in the air. “See, the fungus comes in sacs that attach to—”

“Don’t say fungus,” Margo said, sticking her tongue out.

“But you should always say sacs,” Eliot interjected before he could stop himself, while beginning the muddling process all over again. Quentin froze and looked up at him, brows pinching with an unfamiliar uncertainty. 

Eliot’s hands stopped over his work as he remembered that, _ oh, yeah _, they were kind of on a Strained Small Talk basis at the moment, and not so much a Teasing Banter one. 

Fuck.

To smooth it over, he shot Quentin a quick and unsteady smile. It only served to twist Q’s face into more confusion, laid bare on his always heart-sleeved face. But with a lick of his lips, he turned his focus back on Margo and his nerdy rant.

“Well, uh, the _ things _ attach to beetles that feed off the elm tree bark, specifically , and then the—the _ things _ attack the—”

“Look, that shit? It’s about as interesting to me as this—” Margo slammed open a magazine from the side table, displaying a picture of Jennifer Garner and Reese Witherspoon in sliced photos next to each other, in very similar blue dresses “—is to you. Tell me, Quentin, who wore it best?”

Q squinted at the photos and then frowned, eyes filled with all the sincerity in the world. “They both look nice.”

Eliot wanted to pin him against the wall and fuck him until they both passed out.

Bambi was less besotted. She rolled her eyes, gagging, “No. Wrong. Reese.”

Quentin tapped on the page. “I mean, the printed box says that only 23% of readers agree with you.”

“Because people are stupid sheep who don’t know tacky accessorizing when they see it,” Margo said with a scowl. She tore the magazine away and held it up in the air, glaring sourly at Q. “God, you never listen to me.”

“Their accessories look the same,” Quentin said, all academic seriousness, yet with the smallest blink of coyness. Without expertise, it was easy to miss. 

Margo wasn’t an expert.

She froze and then spun around to look right at Eliot, wide eyes desperate and pleading. “El. Help.”

“That’s a lost cause, Bambi,” Eliot said, crushing ice over and over again. It was basically water. “Besides, you know I think Jen Garner’s a dish.”

“Whole damn buffet,” Quentin said quickly, nerdily, sending a ripple of sparkling tension down his back. His eyes snapped over to Q’s, which were smiling up at him, tentative but true. Eliot’s mouth fell open and he tried to think of something to say, but his words came up empty.

Did this mean they were—talking now?

Was that all it took? A dumb double entrendre about ballsacks and suddenly, all was well? He started to fill the cup with bourbon and he spilled it on the table. He was in uncharted territory. He was ill-equipped to deal with it. He should pour the bourbon down his throat.

But his thoughts were cut off by Bambi making a small simpering noise his way. She leaned over and patted his free hand, her chunky bracelet bouncing against his cufflinks with a dinging chime.

“First of all, gross,” Bambi said response to Q, before turning to Eliot, gently cooing. “And yes, I know you like her, baby, but that’s your _ Alias _ bias. We’re in a post-post-Affleck world now.”

“I’d still do Ben Affleck,” Eliot admitted with a wince.

Margo gasped, her face screwed up with horror. “_ What? _”

Eliot shook his head, deeply apologetic. “I know.”

“Okay, point made. Not interesting,” Quentin said, clearing his throat as he stood. He darted a fast look at Eliot one more time before running his hands through his hair and sighing. “I’m heading out to the library.”

“Speaking of _ boring _, “ Margo said with a groan, throwing another pillow at Quentin’s face. He blinked in surprise, again, like he couldn’t have possibly predicted it. “It’s Saturday, be fun.”

“The library is very fun,” Julia said brightly, obviously just to piss Bambi off. She received a middle finger for her efforts. Quentin bent down and grabbed his leather bag, shrugging it on.

“Van Der Weghe is making me do a meteorological demo for my final and I extra suck at Nature magic,” he said with a wane grin and a tuck of long hair behind his ears. “I’ll be buried in thunder resonance books until break.”

Huh. Literal storms were brewing too. That boded well.

“Want help? Julia asked, bouncing her hand on her knee. She smiled, too wide. “Or hey, maybe just some company? We could go get some coffee and chat, hang out, just the two of us—”

“God, again?” Margo asked, rolling her eyes theatrically. “You’re like obsessed with him right now.”

“Quentin is my best friend in the world,” Julia said, too intense. Quentin’s jaw ticked and Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “Spending time with him is a joy I would never give up.”

Jesus. Okay. Eliot decided to drink the cup he was making too. Always good to taste test in the proper settings.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Margo said, waving Julia off with a pout before slumping back in the chair, slouchy and sweet. “But, like, be obsessed with me. I’m much more obsessable.”

“Hey Q,” Julia said, straightening out her long neck and clapping her hands together. Quentin took a deep breath through his teeth and raised his eyebrows, a cracking veneer of patience over the tense lines of his muscles. “How’s this for a plan? We go work on storm magic, or maybe even just get a nice breeze going. Then we head to get some hot cocoa and talk about Fillorian allegories before getting dinner and—“

“No, thanks,” Quentin said, a little tightly. But then he smiled easily, so Eliot was probably reading into things again. Julia deflated and looked at him intensely, unreadable. But Quentin must have seen something there, because he responded with his own intense and unreadable look. She volleyed it back. He returned. Her eyebrow arched. His eyes blinked five times fast.

Anyway, it went on for an awkwardly long time and so Eliot turned away, having grown bored. He cleaned out the cup and started over on his cocktail.

Third time would definitely be the charm.

“I think I can manage, Jules,” Quentin finally said aloud as he waved to the room’s empty space, rather than anyone in particular. “See you all when I see you.”

“Coldwater!” Julia called out over the back of the couch at his retreating form. He slumped his shoulders and turned around, long-suffering. She pursed her lips at him. “Eat. A. Good. Lunch.”

“I’m. Not. A. Child,” Quentin said back, in the same staccato cadence. But at Julia’s firm gaze, he took a deep breath and shook his head, looking up at the ceiling. “But yeah, okay, I will.”

Her finger jutted out at him. “Not grilled cheese!”

“It has protein,” Q said, head tilting like a pup.

“Cheese is the worst protein, Q.”

“There is no good or bad protein,” Quentin countered, crossing his arms. “Protein is protein.”

“Yes, technically,” Julia said, putting on her Cool Health Teacher face while her hands went to her hips. “But cheese has so much saturated fat and sodium that it’s basically—“

That in and of itself was enough to get Quentin fully through the door, waving a middle finger in the air behind him as he stomped out. “Bye everyone!”

Eliot smiled into his chopped mint.

But a sharp sigh called his attention, followed by the sound of Julia’s arms thumping against her chest and into a defensive stance.

“What?” She demanded at seemingly nothing. But Bambi stood up and walked over to Eliot, grabbing a glass, some ice, and a bottle of vodka. She poured and cocked an eye up.

“You know what,” Margo said, slow and even. As she took a sip of her liquor, Julia clicked her teeth together and shook her head.

“You have to respect my dynamic with—“

“You have to ease up, Smother Hen,” Margo said, not unkindly. “You’re pissing him off.”

Unexpectedly, Julia laughed, sputtering her lips. “Oh, he can be pissed. I don’t give a shit. Whatever it takes so he takes care of himself.”

Eliot frowned, fully disengaging from his work for the first time. “Q seems okay to me.”

It was true. He knew the signs of a depressive Quentin almost as well as Julia did now. Despite not talking much, he had certainly been observing Q plenty. 

He seemed stressed about school as usual. But in general, it seemed like he was sleeping fine, eating as well as he ever did, and even being social. He’d been to every Cottage party since Ibiza, a record as far as he could remember. Every time, Q stayed most of the night, happily bobbed his head to music, and chatted with people to the side of the bar. Near Eliot but not with him.

Anyway.

There were none of the usual signs of danger, at least from where he sat. But apparently, that wasn’t the case from Julia’s vantage point.

“I’m sure he does,” she said, cutting out a harsh laugh. She refused to look at him. “You always see what you want to see when it comes to Q.”

Ah, it was Little Miss Passive Aggressive. That had been another change since Ibiza. 

It hadn’t been cute. 

Eliot licked his lips once. Then before he could think it through, he slammed his hand down on his cutting board, startling even Bambi into spilling her drink.

“Okay, what the hell is your problem?” Eliot demanded. Julia still wouldn’t look at him. “Any particular reason you’ve been such a—?”

She looked at him now. Julia smiled under her dark eyes, tilting her head in false confusion. “Such a what, Eliot?”

He chuckled low and lit a cigarette. Then widened his eyes at her, all sardonic innocence. “A _ cuh _-rankypants.”

“Well, at least you have your shitty jokes to keep you warm at night,” Julia said with a big, cheeky, dangerous grin. “Help you sleep too?”

He bit into his filter and narrowed his eyes. “If you have something you want to say to me, Wicker, then say it.”

Julia’s eyes lost all mocking as they went cool. She snorted and shook her head, looking away. “What would be the use in that?”

A vicious retort spiked at the edge of his tongue, but Bambi’s icy grip on his forearm stopped its launch. She glared up at him with fierce eyes before flashing them over to Julia, as she snapped her other fingers for attention.

“No,” Margo said, pointing between the two of them. Her meaning was clear, but she still bared her fangs and spoke through her teeth, hissing and wild. “I will literally murder you both where you stand, got it?”

Eliot shook his shoulders out and blew out a puff of air, already surrendering. But Julia tightened her jaw and faced down Margo head-on.

“No,” Julia said, laughing out in barely a whisper. She pointed at Eliot without looking at him, eyes burning at Margo. “He has been such a _ fucking dick _—”

“I don’t know what the _ fuck _ is going on here lately,” Margo whispered, in that croaking and pointed way of hers. Her cheeks grew red and her neck muscles popped. “But I don’t actually give a shit. You two are friends. We’re all best fucking friends and we’re gonna fucking act like it or so help me god, do you understand?”

Julia stared down at the ground, trying to keep her temper in check. “You can’t order around us around like we’re your soldiers or some shit.”

“I am in a goddamn thesis hole, Julie,” Margo said, screeching as she grabbed at her hair. “I do not have time for anyone’s interpersonal bullshit, least of all you two massive pains in my ass. Get along or ignore each other. Only two options.”

But before Julia could respond, the Cottage door flew open and Quentin stormed back in, eyes set straight ahead and fists clenched at his side. He slammed the door shut and walked into the living room, panting.

“I’m back,” Q said, unnecessarily. Then he nodded once as he stared off into space, before focusing all his attention on Eliot. “Uh, hey, El, what are you doing right now?”

_ Trying to revive my heart into normal functions _, Eliot didn’t say. But he did say, eloquently: “I’m—this?”

Quentin nodded again, before averting his gaze, embarrassed. “Wanna get lunch with me?”

Eliot blinked, his numb body turning to painful pins and needles at the sudden flare of hope in his gut. “That’d be great.”

(How long had he been that numb?)

Julia snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

“Okay, well,” Quentin shifted on his feet, shooting Julia another one of those unreadable looks. Then he smiled back up at Eliot, still tentative. Still true. “Uh, I do have work, so can we—?”

Eliot nodded, putting out his cigarette and wiping his hands on a white rag. He blinked over and over, clearing his throat, before he forced his most natural smile at Q. Their eyes met and the world’s color started to slowly ease its way back in, the Cottage turning gold and green and red right before his very eyes.

(How long had everything been in grayscale?)

“Yeah. Yeah,” he said, smiling turning real. “I’ll clean up later. Okay.”

Meeting eyes and grins again, they started to make their way out the door and all of Eliot’s grounding and focus started to come back in happy waves, when the best voice in the world stopped them.

“Q, sweetie, before you go, I have a question for you,” Margo said, resting her chin on her fist, lips curling down into a thoughtful frown. At Quentin’s waiting eyebrows, she took a deep breath. “If I murdered Julia and Eliot, do you think we’d grief-bang about it or would you be too mad at me?”

“I—what?” Quentin startled backward, eyes so damn confused. “What the fuck?”

“It’s a thought experiment,” Margo said, sighing and put-upon.

Quentin rolled his eyes, adjusting his bag. “I don’t think you know what a thought experiment is.”

“Answer the question,” Bambi said, cracking her neck. Quentin bit his lip and stared straight ahead, before opening his mouth and closing it. He nodded, holding his hand in the air, on the edge of a thought.

“Okay, but, like, _ why _ did you murder them?”

Julia threw the pillow that time.

* * *

The Brakebills cafeteria was a dreary place.

The air was always chilly. Its architectural lines stretched out long and unforgiving, with blue and pink windows that cast a gloomy purple pall over the uniform wooden tables. Sure, there were lamps over most of them, with shitty edison bulbs and round shades that added an unappealing white-yellow to the atmosphere. But for the most part, it was like one of the professors had decided to see if they could create a room that best triggered Seasonal Affectiveness Disorder on a campus with controlled weather.

Weirdly, despite what was probably good for him, it was one of Quentin’s favorite places on campus. 

Since they met, Q was always pestering Eliot about joining him there. He’d suggest they meet for a coffee or food they didn’t “have to” cook (as though Eliot had ever complained about cooking, ever in his life.) He even want to go to just hang out, like it was a fun change of scenery rather than set dressing for a horror movie. The handful of times Eliot had indulged him, Quentin would find the furthest back corner he could and prop himself up in some absurd way, like he was the comfiest frog on the strangest lily pad. It was sweet of course, in the usual Qish way. Though he had to admit it was one of the Quentin quirks Eliot _ really _didn’t understand.

But for once, he had never been happier to be seated in his least favorite alcove of the school, with Quentin’s dirty boots a little too close to his BLT. Eliot’s lips quirked as Q settled against the wall, cross-legged with a fresh grilled cheese plopped in the lap of his acid-washed jeans. He was cute.

Weakness acknowledged.

“Don’t tell Julia,” Quentin said, lowering his brow like he had a real secret.

“See, I’d go the opposite tack,” Eliot said, waving a particularly crispy french fry before popping it in his mouth. “Full blown social media campaign. Your grilled cheese now has its own Instagram account.”

“That would be a good way to stick it to her, if not for one major issue,” Quentin said, setting his jaw upwards, brattily. “Which is that, as always, we are not allowed—“

“Jesus, Q.”

“—to use technology on Brakebills property.”

The first real, full smile Eliot felt in days, maybe weeks, crossed over his face as he studied Quentin’s earnest and stern expression. “Rules are meaningless to you every other context, but that’s the hill you die on?”

“Fogg says it interferes with the current,” Q said with a shrug, digging into his own fries. “I’d feel terrible if I fucked up someone else’s work.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Fogg’s full of shit.”

“Based on?”

“The fact that I use my phone daily,” Eliot said, waving it proudly in the air and pointing out that he was, in fact, on his data and not airplane mode. “It’s never caused an issue.”

“Sure,” Quentin snorted. “QED.”

The glow of another smile stretched wide, but just as he was about to give his friend (his _ friend _) even more shit for being such an inconsistent goody-goody, barring a better term, Quentin’s brow pinched. He looked up at an approaching figure, fingers twitching around his food. Curious, Eliot turned around in his chair and caught sight of the impending doom. He propped his elbow and frowned.

Penny Adiyodi stalked his way over. He wore a threadbare green shirt unbuttoned down to his navel, all for Eliot’s viewing pleasure. 

God, he was hot. 

Total asshole. 

But so fucking hot.

Now, to be sure, Penny was a total dick—cruel and spiteful, with alpha male syndrome galore. Not appealing. Plus, obviously, he had tortured Quentin for months, for no discernible reason beyond not liking Q’s personality. Which was not only an _ insane _ position, but a hurtful one. Eliot wasn’t a fan, to say the least.

… But _ goddamn _ , he still wore the fuck out of a flowy shirt and a scarf . Overall, Penny was neatly categorized into Eliot’s _ Paisley, Patchouli, and Pain _ brand of fantasy. Not a common dip, but there when the itch arrived. 

Not that he’d ever tell Quentin that anytime soon. 

(Or at all. Because why would he? It would be weird.)

(Just because he _ wanted _ to tell Q everything didn’t mean he should.)

(Whatever.)

As usual though, Penny was completely uninterested in Eliot and pressed his palms on the table next to Q, tilting his head menacingly.

“Even though I fuckin’ _ love _ that circus music sound mixed with screaming about Hobbits or some shit—” 

Under his breath, Q muttered, “_ Dwarves _,” and Eliot’s heart ached.

Penny glared harder, opting to ignore the interruption. “—I figured I’d let you know your wards are slipping. Again.”

“Sorry,” Quentin sighed, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll adjust.”

Penny nodded slowly, his eyes bulging out his head as he stared and stared at Quentin. Hot as he was, it still sent a rush of defensiveness through Eliot, who hadn’t yet made his illustrious presence known.

“Hey Penny,” he said, mostly casual. But he figured the psychic would pick up on the edge he wanted to convey. He’d never know if it worked though, since Penny didn’t even look at him when he jutted his chin out in that standard Male Greeting Nod that had always evaded him.

“Sup, Eliot?” He said, like he didn’t give a shit. Then he narrowed his eyes back at Q. “I don’t know how you function.”

Quentin pressed his lips into a line and held his hands out. “Mediocrely.”

Eliot was used to his little self-jabs, but that didn’t mean he had to like them. His throat twisted with the urge to spit out compliments, _ thousands _of compliments, all assuring Quentin that he was the kindest, bravest, most generous, beautiful, wonderful—

He bit his tongue into blood. 

Penny stood up straight, his face growing softer. He kept his dark brown eyes on Q, who was fully recoiling under his scrutiny.

“Stop torturing yourself,” Penny finally said, his voice low and almost gentle. He crossed his arms over his mostly bare chest—which, like, seriously, bravo for the bold style choice—and let out a short breath. “Man the fuck up and do something about it. Better to know. Trust me.”

“Your unsolicited advice is, as always,” Quentin smiled, but his sparking eyes gave his sarcasm away, “unappreciated.”

This had the unforeseen effect of making Penny Adiyodi laugh. 

Eliot paused over his sandwich, fingers tightening around the seeded bread. He wasn’t sure that he had ever heard Penny Adiyodi laugh before. He felt a bit like Steve Irwin must have felt when he saw new animal behavior for the first time. You know, before the whole unfortunate stingray thing.

Anyway, it was exhilarating.

“Yeah, yeah,” Penny said, before he fucking clapped Quentin on the shoulder, definitely friendly and borderline affectionate. “Take care of yourself, man.”

What the fuck?

What the fuck?

Almost exactly one year ago, Penny had said _ I hope you get stabbed in the spleen, you fucking pussy _, when Quentin had wished him a happy winter break. So to say that it was a slight change in tone between them might have been understating things. A tad.

Eliot leaned back on his arm and slowly tilted his head at Q, who wasn’t paying attention to him. Instead, he gave Penny a small wave before popping a fry in his mouth, like all of this was really normal.

“You too,” Quentin said, without much inflection. “Say hey to Victoria and Oscar.”

“Will do,” Penny said as he rapped his fist on the table before nodding once more, curt. “Later, Eliot.”

“Bye, Penny,” Eliot called out in a singsong voice to his retreating figure. He swiveled around to watch him walk away and—as soon as he was out of ear or mindreading shot—he let out a sharp laugh and looked Quentin right in the eyes.

He smirked. “What in the actual mother loving shit was that?”

“What do you mean?” Q asked it so sincerely. He was so ridiculous.

“You and Penny are, what,” Eliot grinned despite himself at the absurdity, “buds now?”

“Yeah, sure, we have slumber parties all the time,” Quentin said with an eye roll. He pulled out the bun Julia made and let his hair fall loose, almost reaching his shoulders. “We gossip about boys and chat about music and rehash all the ways he’s casually threatened to murder me.”

Eliot was a complete fucking dumbass who read way too much into Q saying _ gossip about boys _ instead of _ gossip about girls _. But he also refused to be deterred from his mission.

“Nope. There was an almost fondness right there between you two,” he accused, putting his elbow on the table and propping his chin on his palm. “Are you almost fond of Penny now?”

“That’s an overstatement,” Quentin said, finally taking a bite of his forbidden melted cheese. “But I guess we’re cool.”

What the fuck. “Cool?”

There had never been anything about any of Quentin and Penny’s interactions that had predicted _ anything _but maybe reaching the point where they could grudgingly ignore each other. And that mostly depended on Q finally getting his psychic wards down pat, which… 

Well, he adored his friend (_ friend _) with all his heart. But there were a few things more likely than that to happen.

Like Margo announcing that she was joining the Peace Corps.

“I know. But I mean—the thing about Penny is, uh,” Quentin picked at his fries again, looking for the crunchy bits, and snorted. His big brown eyes looked up at Eliot with a hint of humor he couldn’t quite translate. “He was a huge asshole.”

“I know, Q,” Eliot said, with a tilt of his lips. The smiles kept coming. “That’s my point.”

Quentin nodded, throwing a tiny crisp in the air and catching it with his mouth. He held a finger up as he bit down, his brow low but his eyes wide. It was as performative as he got.

“Like, a massive asshole. To everyone. He was erratic and vicious and, like, dismissive, all at once, all the time, over shit he never bothered to explain,” Q said, blowing a stray hair out of his face. “So, yeah, hypothetically, I know he fucked up a lot, and that there are definitely people who wouldn’t blame me if I said _ Fuck that guy _ forever, you know?”

“What the hell are you talking about _ hypothetically _?” Eliot frowned under a laugh. “Please recall that if we had lockers, he would have stuffed you in them.”

Q smiled into his food. “But despite everything, I know he’s—god, he’s such a good person, even if he doesn’t think so—“

“You have too much faith in people,” Eliot said with a sigh and not for the first time.

“—and he’s, like, my best friend in the world,” Quentin finished, meeting Eliot’s eyes full on. “And I missed him. A lot. So I wasn’t going to spend any more time avoiding him, because it sucked too much.”

Oh.

Eliot swallowed, the muscles of his throat spasming as they registered Quentin’s meaning.

_ Oh _.

His perfect Q was such a crafty motherfucker, wasn’t he?

He huffed out a breath, not exactly a laugh, and glanced away, his eyes burning and heavy with unwelcome wetness. He sniffed once and blinked the embarrassment away before schooling his face into a placid smile.

“I suppose Penny was certainly—maybe a little much, when you all went on vacation together,” Eliot said slowly. “He didn’t always make top notch choices.”

Quentin’s lips twitched, almost teasing. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“But you’re right. Now that you mention it, I can tell Penny is—” Eliot lowered his gaze to his hands along with the tenor of his voice. “I can tell he’s sorry and that he really, _ really _ missed you too.”

He raised his eyes again, his heart thudding in his fragile chest as the dark curl of his lashes blurred the precise emotions swirling across Quentin’s face. For a few beats, he stared down at Eliot, eyebrows tight and eyes endless, everything raw and too messy to fully comprehend. But then he cleared his throat, smiled privately to himself and took a deep breath, before shrugging at Eliot.

“Hence why we’re cool,” Q said, simply. Then he took a huge bite of his grilled cheese and munched. Like Forrest Gump before him, that was apparently all he had to say about that.

(Whatever, anyone who said they didn’t like that movie was a liar.)

Eliot drummed his fingers on the table and let out his held breath. “Thank you for explaining.”

_ Thank you for giving me another chance _, he didn’t say. He always felt like he was low on chances with Q. He knew he never even deserved the first one. He hoped his real meaning was clear. He always hoped his real meaning was clear. 

But so far, if he was being honest, his average on that wasn’t great.

Quentin offered him a small, tentative grin and kept eating, the silence finally making its way to comfort for the first time in too long. But after a few minutes of quiet, his face tensed up again and he put his hands on his knees.

“But, uh, you know,” he said in his most stilted voice and Eliot’s muscles froze, doom settling in. Quentin worked his jaw and looked away, fidgeting his fingers. “Penny’s not cool with everyone, from what I understand. I think he was kind of an especially huge asshole to someone else. Someone who, uh, really didn’t deserve it.”

Flashes of Alice Quinn’s angry and devastated eyes taunted him, under the ominous soundtrack of his own stupid words. He clenched his fists and sighed, rubbing them into his eyes until he saw stars. He really was a huge dickhead and a massive asshole. He deserved every bit of ire she wanted to throw his way. He had just been too much of a coward to face it.

“I know,” Eliot said, low as he could. But Q heard him. His warm eyes glowed down and he chewed on his lower lip.

“He should apologize to her, El,” Q said, still keeping up the ridiculous facade of a conversation like a champ. But Eliot didn’t have the patience for that anymore.

He breathed down any shame to ask directly, “You know what I said to her?”

Quentin regraded him quietly for a second before he licked his lips and nodded, shorter. “Uh, yeah. She told me.”

Eliot closed his eyes against the growing guilt. Then he squeezed them even tighter against the growing anger. That _ she _ had any right to be pissed at _ him _ , that _ she _ was the one who got to give _ him _ shit about _ his _ choices, even considering—

He let out a shaky laugh, sucking his lower lip in between his teeth. Then he simply nodded and smiled at Quentin.

It wasn’t as real as before.

“I’ll talk to her,” Eliot said, before biting into his sandwich. That was all he had to say about that. But it was worth the strenuous effort to be calm, flimsy as it was and would ever be, at the tiny grin that crossed Quentin’s face. Like he was pleased. Like he was proud of Eliot. It made stomach swoop.

He was pathetic.

With an exaggerated swallow of his food, Eliot pointed over at Quentin’s half-finished grilled cheese with a wider smile. Still false, but at least far more fun.

“So, what filter are we going to use on this bad boy?” Eliot waggled his eyebrows as he opened his phone, to a nonexistent Instagram app. He wasn’t on social media. “I think we want one that will highlight the processed orange the most, no?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Please don’t take stylized pictures of my sandwich to spite Julia. I just wanna eat.”

“You never let me have any fun,” Eliot said, throwing a french fry into Quentin’s hair. The teasing middle finger he got back sparked wider, happier, and more delirious smiles on both their faces, traded back and forth before conversation started to flow with ease. 

It was like it had never gone away.

* * *

Disposable coffee cups in hand, Eliot and Quentin walked the quad, taking the long way toward the library. 

The trees were still, with only a small breeze passing through. The sun shone bright on them, without a hint of the freeze overtaking the rest of the world in that moment. He’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes Eliot missed the change of seasons. It was why he was so insistent on quarterly parties celebrating the passage of time, even if Brakebills itself was about as temperate as Southern California. They did have more rain, he thought absently, staring up at the green leaves overheard. It kept the grounds lush throughout the year.

Quentin, meanwhile, was struggling with grasping some unrelated, yet very basic concepts.

“So it’s a Christmas party,” he said, bringing the black lip of his cup to his mouth, smile forming stubbornly. Eliot sighed.

“No, it’s a _ winter _ party,” he said, poking Q on the shoulder once for emphasis. He stood tall as they walked, dragging his usual cigarette up to his lips. “I’d never be so gauche as to celebrate Christmas, my god.”

Quentin’s big eyes frowned, childlike. “Even secularly?”

“Especially secularly,” Eliot said, shaking his arms out like he needed to get the idea off his person. “It’s so gauche.”

“Gauche things are fun,” Quentin said, surprising Eliot not with his words but by taking the cigarette from his hands and smoking it. “You’re missing out on so much.”

His eyes floated down and watched Quentin’s lips wrap around the place his own lips had just been. Everything was a little too hot and dry, his chest too tight. He wondered if he’d ever forget what it felt like to have Quentin’s body under his hands. Ever forget exactly what that mouth felt like, soft and gasping against his. How his pulse raced when they touched—

Shit. Quentin was still talking. He needed to focus.

“You could have, like, candy canes and mistletoe,” Quentin said with a big smile and bright eyes, blissfully unaware of how Eliot’s gaze dropped, again, ever briefly to his lips. But maybe he had a point. “And—and a gingerbread decorating contest? You _ have _ to like gingerbread. It’s the law.”

Eliot snorted, a choreographed thing, and took his cigarette back. He tilted it skyward and breathed out smoke like a languous cloud.

“Slippery slope may be a fallacy,” he said, anticipating the shithead off the bat. He was rewarded with a Quentin eye roll and smirk. “But if I allow even a single strand of tinsel into the Cottage, I’m certain I’ll wake up wearing K-Mart cargo pants. I’m sorry, but it’s how it has to be.”

Quentin threw his coffee cup into the magical void and shrugged. “Cargo pants are great.”

“I’m sure they are,” Eliot said, placing a condescending hand on his shoulder. “For you.”

At the real first touch between them in weeks, Quentin jolted, muscles tense. The blood drained from Eliot’s face and his stomach shuddered with uncertainty. But just as he was about to snatch his hand back, like he had touched a burning oven, Q relaxed in toward him with a happy little hum, their hips touching. 

A wave of warmth coursed through his body and every color went blinding bright. He swallowed and pushed his luck, sliding his arm across the expanse of his firm back and wrapping his fingers around him, like a hug. He brushed his thumb up and down the soft fabric, imagining the soft skin underneath.

Then Quentin smiled up at him and the world disappeared.

But in cold reality, the library loomed ahead and it took all his willpower not to gather him into his chest and steal him away, so he never left his sight again. The only consolation was that Quentin also obviously in no hurry to get to work, shuffling his feet and angling even more toward Eliot, his smile turning to a tease. _Flirtatious_, an annoying back part of Eliot’s brain whispered, stupid and hopeful against all good reason.

“You’re missing out on the pocket space,” Quentin said, quietly. His eyes popped up at Eliot from beneath his lashes. “I can carry, like, all my keys and a book and, uh, you know, anything else I might need that’s also, um, pocket-sized.”

He was so cute. Eliot wanted to _ devour _ him, to rip his clothes off and get drunk on his skin. Sharing his atmosphere was exquisite torture. Eliot was such an idiot. He was such a fool.

By then, they were standing on the juncture where the pathway met the library step’s concrete. But they may as well have been on another world altogether for what Eliot gave a fuck about in the moment, with Quentin’s big eyes looking up at him, steady and true. His chest squared toward him, the scent of his cheap minty shampoo and stale smoke wafting in the breeze. His cheeky little expression. Fuck, Eliot had missed every part of him. Still missed too much of him.

(_ “Eliot,” Quentin breathed against his lips, thumb tracing against the grain of his stubble. “El, you feel so good.” _

_ He kissed him again and again, tongue curling with his. Eliot’s palms traveled up his sides, relishing the lines of his muscles, the soft fabric of his shirt, how even the sand and the seabreeze was nothing but Quentin Quentin Quentin... _)

Emboldened without cause, Eliot took another step into his space, watching Q’s eyes darken and heat with wonder. It was a terrible idea, to stoke these fires again. But fuck.

_ Fuck. _

He was just a man.

“You could also carry cutlery,” Eliot said, nonsensically but who gave a shit. His voice was little more than a murmur. “In your pockets.”

Quentin’s breath hitched and his smile went soft. “Good example.”

“I’m chock full of good examples,” he said with a swallow, probably audible, gulping. Wanting. He let out a shaky breath and his heart sped up as Quentin took another step in, making the space between them even smaller. Even closer.

“Yeah?” Q’s eyes didn’t move from his and Eliot couldn’t remember what oxygen even was.

“Yeah,” Eliot croaked out, seeing nothing but Quentin. _ Quentin, Quentin, Quentin _. With a jerky and unsteady motion, his hand reached out and lightly touched the corner of his elbow, a tingling burn on his fingertips. “Hey, blow off studying.”

The shutter closed back over Quentin’s eyes. _ Shit. _He averted his gaze and licked his lips, and Eliot wondered if he could claw his words back with his bloodied hands.

“I shouldn’t,” Quentin said quietly, not backing away, but brows pinching with another hint of hesitation. 

Eliot tightened his grip, not too much, but enough to keep him where he was. But when his fingers wrapped around his arm, Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut and delirious Eliot almost dipped his lips down on his. 

He was pretty sure he could have, that it would have made his point, that Q would have responded the way he wanted (_wanted_, fuck, he _wanted_.) At the same time, it wasn’t actually what he was going for, no matter how much all his instincts were screaming at him to follow through, follow through, fucking follow through. He wasn’t actually totally stupid, contrary to most evidence. Deep down, he knew was the easy path to losing Quentin, forever. Not worth it.

… But you know, he was still _ pretty _ stupid. And stubborn.

“Do it anyway. Come on,” Eliot said with a cajoling grin. His thumb found another rounded groove under the worn fabric of the trusty sweatshirt. He pressed into it. “We could go for a walk?”

Quentin’s eyes lit up with something unfamiliar before they dipped down to the brick pathway, his hand curving up to rest on his own neck. He shook his head. “El, I—”

Urgency ripped through him like a lion’s claw. He forced a nonchalant and breathy laugh, lightly shaking his arm with a too-big smile. “Oh, come _ on _—”

But the moment wasn’t meant to last, as a booming laugh and a commanding voice interrupted from overhead, calling out with geniality. The greeting wrapped around them like a lasso that pulled and separated. 

Quentin blanched, withdrawing immediately. He snapped his arm away from Eliot and took three large steps backwards, hugging himself. Eliot didn’t even have the time to be concerned when a large, warm hand rested on his shoulder.

“Eliot Waugh, as I live and breathe,” the familiar voice laughed and it only took him a moment to turn his head and register the handsome face of Idri, the King of Encanto Oculto. The one he had definitely, totally planned on fucking but had never, well... 

Gotten around to fucking.

“Idri,” Eliot said, blinking in surprise. He wasn’t overly fond of surprises, but this one was pleasant at least. He smiled and offered the man a quick, tight hug. “What are you doing here?”

Pulling away as fast as Eliot had reeled him in, Idri’s nuanced eyes—bright and deep as he remembered—looked him up and down, before laughing again, like he remembered a joke. He was dressed in a blue and gray suit, looking far more the competent professional he naturally exuded than the absurd (and sexy) furs he wore in Ibiza.

He really was a fine looking man, he mused absently. With that thought though, Eliot swallowed tightly, suddenly _acutely _aware of Quentin again. 

Q had opened his bag and was shuffling through his mess of papers, like he was looking for something. Eliot highly suspected it was a ruse, borne of social anxiety and maybe—just maybe—something else. A stone of guilt fell into his stomach, when he realized that a tiny and petty and fucked up part of him hoped Q’s sudden retreat was from jealousy.

Really tiny. Practically minuscule.

Eliot shook his head to clear his thoughts and painted on a soft smile. He was being stupid again. No time for that. 

Luckily, if Idri picked up on the change in his mood, he didn’t let on. Instead, he smiled with his bright white teeth and pointed back toward the admin building.

“Henry Fogg and I are good friends. We have some business to attend to, nothing interesting,” Idri said with a shake of his stately head. His eyes finally moved from Eliot to smile gently at Q, who was still neck deep in his bag and shifting on his feet. “Good to see you again, Quentin.”

“Yeah, same,” Quentin said, flat and without looking up. Then he sighed and closed his bag, fortress eyes meeting Eliot’s. “Hey, so, uh, I’m gonna head out.”

The panic exploded in his gut. “But I thought we were—?”

“I really shouldn’t,” Quentin said, his face impassive and chuckle forced. He gave Idri a quick line-mouthed smile. “Plus, this way, you two can catch up.”

Chest wrenching in and out with labored breath, Eliot was a crazed half-second from grabbing him tight and begging him to stay. But all he could manage was a creaky, unstable: “Q—”

“Hope your meetings go well, Idri,” Quentin said, placidly enough as he turned around and walked away. He didn’t look at Eliot again. “I’ll, uh, see you both around.”

The air was colder when the library door slammed and Eliot was certain that he fucked up again. 

Nothing new.

But left alone with Idri, he forced himself to be sociable. He at least had that. He always had that. Eliot raised his eyebrows, holding his hands behind his back as he met his friend’s eyes again. They were a little more puzzled now and maybe a touch exasperated. They stared through Eliot with a look that belied more knowledge than he intended to share.

“He’s a nervous one, isn’t he?” Idri said, though it sounded like it wasn’t all he meant. But he didn’t elaborate when Eliot frowned with a question in his eyes. He just adjusted his tie and smiled at the ground, before turning his head in profile to gaze upon the campus, unperturbed.

“Occasionally,” Eliot responded vaguely, not wanting to dwell on the topic. Then he smiled, shifting course like a pro. “Now, if I had known you were in town, I would have invited you to lunch.”

He would have. Idri was a good connection, in many ways.

“And I would have had to decline,” Idri said, matching his expression. He always mirrored people. It was a good social tactic. “Far too much going on in my corner of the world. But a late dinner perhaps? Tonight?”

Eliot offered a small wince, a polite sadness. “I’m hosting, at the Physical Kids Cottage.”

“A party?” Idri sounded more intrigued by a grad school drinking fest than a middle-aged man should, but Eliot judged no kinks.

“If you’re not opposed to fraternizing with the underlings, you should join us,” he offered, not really expecting him to take him up on it. But surprising him, Idri brightened and eagerly nodded.

“Why, of course, Your Majesty,” he said with a small bow, one arm pressed firm behind his back. His eyes danced up at Eliot and a small wave of attraction ran through him. Gentle, pleasant. Dull. But it was enticing, in its relative safety.

Idri stood straight again and laughed, “From what I understand, I’m on the uncontested sovereign land of the Prince of Brakebills.”

“Ah,” Eliot said, finally putting out what was left of his cigarette. He threw over a shit-eating grin. “So you and Henry have talked about me.”

_ Prince of Brakebills _ was probably not the first descriptor Dean Henry Fogg would use in regard to Eliot. 

A few of the more relevant turns of phrase included the A+ alliterative, _ Arrogant adolescent alcoholic _ . There was also, _ Biggest pain in the ass this school has ever seen _ . One time, _ Too damn smart and so damn stupid at the same goddamn time _ . Oh, and his personal favorite, the time Fogg had been talking to Sunderland in a hallway, pointed at a passing—and truly innocent—Eliot, to say, _ Don’t get me started on that asshole _.

Idri let out a booming laugh and fixed Eliot with a wry and winking look. “He certainly feels strongly about you, I can say that.”

“True love, baby,” Eliot quipped and Idri rewarded him with another full laugh. It was nice.

“Well, I would never get between the two of you, but I would be honored to attend a true Eliot Waugh party,” the Encanto King said, before taking one step closer in. His cologne smelled nice, like rosewood and myrrh. “Maybe after, we could… talk. Just the two of us. There’s something I want to propose.”

His eyes were low, fixed on his neck and Eliot’s heart pounded with dread more than desire. It was a weird fucking day. But he knew how to play the game—he was a master at the goddamn game—so he smiled, dazzling, and lowered his own voice, enticing.

“By all means,” Eliot said, before sliding his hand around Idri’s shoulder and walking them through campus, the conversation light and easy and dull and nice.—

* * *

Hours later, preparations were in full-swing, one of Eliot’s favorite states of being. The fizz of magic in the air. The fizz of champagne in glasses. Telekinesis whirling and whirring about. Bottles and lights and _ music _and streams of liquor all dancing like fountains, all moving toward a joint goal of pleasure.

The heady anticipation of a good party—the spark of _ potential _in the air—always made Eliot’s veins run hot, ready to unwrap the mystery of the night. Yet still… always, always wanting to hold off, ever so gentle, ever so subtle. That way he could prolong the sweet release in the build-up, the chaos, the order. The shock wave of fulfillment would come in good time and all the better for the delay, with rapture and bliss taking over all senses.

Eliot took a quick shot of tequila, another taste test. 

He was half-hard in his pants.

There was maybe a _slight_ chance he was still _slightly_ sexually frustrated. 

It was fine.

Obviously, of course, duh, it would be better if he could get it up for his usual array of willing and eager first year boys or even Idri, who had been pretty fucking obvious about his intentions, or really, _anyone _who wasn’t—

He bit down on his teeth, almost snarling. Eliot didn’t like to dwell on what should have been. It was always better to exist in what was. And it was fine. It was fine.

It was _ fine. _

It was going to be a great fucking party. That was what mattered.

Anyway, in more pertinent matters, he had gotten so caught up in observing the glory of his own work, that he’d forgotten all about Alice Quinn. That is, until she was storming down the stairs, fire blue eyes focused on him in her enraged fury. As always these days, she looked like the most dangerous person in the world. 

Eliot gulped.

Her Mary Janes stomped on the hardwood and she stood in front of him, looking at him dead in the eyes for the first time in almost a month. She glared stone cold, and the ticking clock of the bomb grew louder in his ear. He hoped he hadn’t just sped things up.

Mostly because it would be kind of inconvenient. With the party and all.

Her pink lips pressed down into a line and she crossed her arms. Two little creases formed between her brows and she shook her hips, the black skirt of her babydoll dress swishing as she did.

“Eliot, may I speak with you please?” Alice said, clipped. His throat closed over itself as his heart dropped.

Shit.

But before he could collect himself enough to respond, she glanced over at the lovebirds on the couch behind him—wrapped up in themselves more than anything Eliot was doing. She softened, going hesitant herself.

She bit her lip. “Hello, Julia. Margo.”

Bambi’s response was bored, at worst. Nothing different than usual, with a yawn and a lazy wave. “Hey Elsa.”

But Julia glanced up at her and offered nothing more than an aggressive smile before looking away like no intrusion had ever impeded her. Alice deflated, but shook her head and turned her cautious eyes back on Eliot.

“May I speak with you?” She repeated, tapping her foot. She sucked her cheeks in and cleared her throat. “In private?”

Eliot stared down at his cranberry mint julep pitcher, as though it would anthropomorphically speak out in defense. Like, _ Sorry, Alice, but Eliot has to attend to me, a sentient drink that will be _ _ thoughtlessly _ _ devoured by blood-thirsty revelers, and whoa, this got dark, huh? _ But alas, his salvation never came. Traitorous cocktail.

So instead, he put down the shaker and nodded, a quick and confident thing before following her over to the nook of the hallway.

He let out a long stream of air from his lips as he walked the plank.

Earlier, he had sent her a small token of his affection and esteem. She wouldn’t talk to him, so it had been the only way to reach her. But by the stormy and enraged look on her face, it hadn’t necessarily been taken in the spirit it was meant. The sick pool of dread at the pit of his stomach grew and grew.

… She was probably going to murder-blast him into another world before the year was out. He should go kiss Margo once, as a bittersweet farewell.

The low light of the cramped corner played shadows off her face. Her lower lip was minced between her teeth by the time she stood still, facing him with tight fists.

“Did you use psychic magic on me?” Alice blurted out. It was the last question he expected. He should have been used to the strange nonsequiturs by now, but his eyebrows disappeared into his curls regardless.

Eliot frowned and responded the only way he could, no matter how much it made him sound like Q. “Uh, what?”

“For the flowers,” Alice clarified, stomping her foot once. Her face was lined in accusation. “Did you use psychic magic?”

A flare of defensive pride lit up in his stomach and he matched her crossed arms measure for measure. He snorted. “I can’t stress enough that I would _ never _ use psychic magic. Even if I was capable, it’s the principle of the thing.”

“Then how did you know that pink roses are my favorite?” Alice asked, jutting her chin upward, like she had finally caught him in his dark web of lies.

The cold tension in his body melted and his heart expanded with a rush of affection for her. He had missed her.

“Call it a lucky hunch,” he said, his arms falling to his side with a soft smile. Alice sniffed, her eyes flashing through a thousand complex emotions before she puckered her lips.

She sniffed again.

“They’re lovely. Thank you,” Alice said, brushing non-existent dust from her skirt. “I plan on using a preserving charm on them.”

“I’m glad, Alice,” Eliot said, risking a soft press of his hand to her bare arm. She flinched away like his touch was acid. Okay.

Her dark brows lowered over her neon eyes. “You were a huge jerk to me.”

Eliot swallowed down his instinct to say, _ Maybe _ _ you shouldn’t be sleeping with the enemy then _. He closed his eyes and cracked his neck, taking a deep breath. It was time to turn over new leaves, grow whole new species of flora if he fucking had to.

“I know,” he said, with as much remorse as he could muster. He did feel bad for having hurt Alice. She was a good person and had been a good friend. Her piss poor taste in partners had nothing to do with anything.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Alice adjusted her glasses and peered up at him. “Is that your apology?”

“The apology was on the card,” Eliot said tight and through his teeth, refusing to say the words she wanted aloud. Come the fuck on.

“No, it wasn’t,” Alice said, her nose scrunching and lips twisting. “The card just said, _ To my favorite blonde. xx Eliot _.”

He wanted a cigarette. But Alice always got pissy when he smoked cigarettes. His fingers twitched at his side.

“Exactly,” Eliot said with a shrug. Alice’s whole face narrowed to an angry point.

“That’s not an apology. It’s a nothing,” she said, heading ticking back and forth every other word. “At worst, it’s borderline objectifying.”

Eliot sighed, rubbing his hands down his face. “It was obviously implied.”

“Apologies aren’t something you imply.”

“Look, Alice,” he growled out, throwing a fist up to his temple. He gave her the most serious look he could. “You know how I feel about Kady and what happened. Or, at least, you understand in theory. Frankly, as someone who wasn’t there, I’m not sure you can totally, truly, honestly _get it_. But—“

But Alice frowned, cutting him off. “That’s fair.”

Eliot blinked, trying to hide his surprise at her agreement. He failed. “Wait, really?”

She nodded, eyes unfocused as though in thought. “Yes. It’s easy for me to come in months later, only hearing stories and knowing that Quentin is fine, and judge your lingering distrust as an overreaction.”

Eliot licked his lips, pulse thumping. “Yeah.”

Alice tilted her head, like a mechanical doll. “I’m sure actually experiencing it was harrowing. I’ve grown to care about Quentin too and the thought of someone hurting him, even by accident, is definitely—“

“I don’t want to talk about that,” Eliot spat out, nausea building from his stomach and reaching—scratching—up his throat. He averted his eyes and felt his jaw muscles pop arrhythmic. He started to pull away, when a gentle French manicured hand landed on his forearm.

“I’m sorry,” Alice said, quietly. Then she set her jaw again, eyes flashing with strength and resolve. “Not for dating Kady. I think you also need to understand that I _ am _ coming from a different perspective and it’s one that is just as valid as yours.”

He knew it was. He knew it. But he couldn’t—he couldn’t admit that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

But he cared about her. Because for whatever fucking dumb reason he had allowed his heart to open again, since he truly was so _ stupid. _ So instead of choking out some meaningless platitude, he just nodded, not looking at her. It was the best he could do.

“But I don’t think I considered yours enough either,” she said, letting her blonde hair fall in front of her face, like a shield. So much like Q. “Because it was painful and confusing. I was finding happiness and your pain didn’t fit that. It’s a hard reality to face.”

Eliot’s chest tightened, though he wasn’t sure with what. “Alice—“

“I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, if you are,” she said, looking him in the eyes. The light in her was blinding, even as her fingers fidgeted. “I’ve—I’ve missed you.”

He could tell that was as hard for her to say as it would be for him. That sparked his own real smile and he tapped her hand with his, a gentle affirmation. She sneaked a tiny grin up at him in turn. She turned her palm over and held his hand, a firm pressure and promise.

She was so lovely.

(He ignored the angry screaming in his roiling gut, the cold rush of anger curling his toes. He was better than his worst instincts.)

(... He could try to be better than his worst instincts.)

“I’m having a party at the Cottage tonight,” Eliot said, hand squeezing hers. “If you… and Kady would like to attend, I would be happy to welcome you both.”

Alice twisted her lips, genuinely perplexed. “You can’t really _invite _us to a party held at our own home.”

“I’m trying here, Alice,” Eliot said, cupping her cheek with his free hand and sighing. Thankfully, it made her smile.

“Okay,” she said, almost shy. She nodded and squeaked. “We’ll be there.”

“Great,” he said, bringing her knuckles up to his lips and kissing once. “It’s a date.”

She smiled like the sun and Eliot ignored, ignored, _ ignored _ the bubbling fury building in his chest. This was a good thing. All was well. Or at least, the storm had passed.

... Sure, let's go with that.

* * *

As the music crested and the lights dipped low, the party thrummed around him as Eliot put the finishing touches on his first cocktail of the night, an edible holly leaf garnish enchanted to taste like _ winsomeness. _He cast his gaze around, taking in the splendor. 

Apropos of nothing, he definitely considered it a sign of personal growth that the snowflakes glittering down from the Cottage ceiling were one of his lovely illusion charms, rather than cocaine. Last time, that hadn’t gone so well and thus, he learned his lesson. Cause and effect, and all that.

Maturity, thy name was Eliot Waugh.

Because even without* nose candy, the party was a smash. It was perfectly raucous and glittering with magic, both real and from the inherent energy of a crowd. Laughter pealed out happily and beautiful bodies writhed as they danced, giddy and tipsy in all the best ways. He had pulled it off, again. Not that he expected less, but it still felt damn good.

(*Okay, more like _ without quite as easily accessible nose candy _. Come on, it wasn’t the sixteenth century. No puritans in sight, thank you very much.)

He savored his victory and sipped his wintery julep. It was sweet and bitter to taste, with a magical firewood scent wafting off the top as the coup de grace. 

But it wasn’t long until his gaze betrayed him. 

Without conscious effort, Eliot passed over all the gorgeous details, the rising smoke and tricks of light. He looked passed the disco balls and the elaborate ice sculptures and the makeshift early orgy by the fire. He even only briefly stopped to look at his Bambi, who was decked out in black fur and thigh-high boots like a goddamn queen. Because even with that grounding sight, he was barely able to keep his own limbs steady as his synapses fired out, overwhelmed.

His party was an unprecedented success, but all he cared to look at was a sweet nerd in a tweed sports coat and blue button down, frowning up at the falling fake snow like it held all the mysteries of magic. 

With his hands in a frame and a small notepad on his lap, Quentin looked at the spell from every angle, trying to solve it, even though he _ knew _all he had to do was ask Eliot for the incantation, specifications, and circumstances. But that wasn’t Q. He had to figure it out himself, right there, squatting on a couch, the centered and studious calm in the middle of a rollicking party.

Eliot loved him.

Not a revelation or anything, but there it was.

He tore his eyes away, his heart reluctant but brain reasonable. Nothing had changed. If anything, everything had gotten way worse and proved his original point. But still. But _ still _. It was there, no matter what he did.

Water wet, sky blue, Eliot cliched.

Sending his glass off to the kitchen, he took a deep breath and swallowed the feeling away. Weakness acknowledged, he thought, on autoplay. The words were more hollow than usual, but he shook it off. Really, the world had seen enough sentimental maudlin nonsense from him for the next good decade.

Time to buck the fuck up.

Thankfully, Eliot didn’t need to dwell on it much longer because a strong arm wrapped around his shoulder and a booming warm laugh filled his ear.

“Oh, Eliot,” Idri said, grinning at him without further adieu. He squeezed his arm tight. “This is _ well done _. Well done, indeed.”

A bubble of happiness rose in his chest at the praise and Eliot pressed a quick kiss to the top of Idri’s bald head, a warm and grateful affection. “I live to serve.”

“Is this for a special occasion?” Idri asked, surveying the room with a keen gaze. “How long did you plan?”

“Spur of the moment,” Eliot answered honestly, calling over two new glasses. The men clinked happily before drinking. “I felt like the campus needed some cheering up, et voila.”

“Your reputation is well deserved,” Idri said, before ducking his head with serious eyes. “And well earned. Please know that at least one person recognizes your tireless work here.”

God, if that recognition didn’t feel good. 

It always took so much out of him, to create these beautiful diversions. But he had so carefully perfected his effortless way, that all his work and care seemed lost on even the people closest to him. His throat tightened with feeling as he took a sip of his drink and nodded, forcing himself to stand tall. Idri deserved nothing less.

“I appreciate that,” Eliot said. Idri patted his shoulder and pulled away, twirling toward the dance floor.

“Join me for a spin?” Idri asked, holding out his hand. Eliot sighed and shook his head, hoping he looked regretful.

“A host’s work is never done,” he said, stretching his arms out wide. It was half-truthful. He did like to keep a close eye on things. But really, he just didn’t… want to dance with Idri. Couldn’t even imagine it.

His heart ached.

(_ Their lips almost touched before Quentin hummed out a laugh and settled his cheekbone against his _ _ . _

_ “You’re a good dancer, El,” he whispered against his ear lobe _.)

At Idri’s final laugh and wave as the crowd swept him away, Eliot finished his drink with shaky hands. 

He placed the glass on a stone coaster, because he wasn’t sure he’d find the path to the kitchen at the moment. He rested his hip against the edge of the coffee table to catch his breath. He stood in his weakness, the tear and pull of his chest, before he gave into his temptation and stole a look over to what he always wanted to see.

But Quentin was gone.

* * *

No matter how raucous and debaucherous a party, once everyone was good and drunk, it was common for tiny pockets of friends to form along couches and floors. 

Of course, Eliot was a dynamic creature at heart. But once he settled into a celebration, even he could admit the quiet joy of a group giggling over magical weed. And right then, the world was soft enough along the edges, in the Cottage’s golden light, that even _ he _ could admit that the urge to connect, human-to-human, was stronger than any drug or any dancefloor could ever hope to be. 

It was equal parts tipsy bullshit and fundamental truth. His favorite.

Seated on the floor with his elbows on the couch behind him and beside Idri, Eliot took in the pink-flushed and happy faces of his friends—plus some randoms and Todd—as they argued over Bambi’s contribution to the latest drinking game.

“They’re _ all _ lies,” Julia said with a cackling laugh, doubling over onto her crossed legs. “You’re a fucking liar. You broke the game.”

Margo smirked and rolled her head back, smoking a joint between two perfectly straight fingers. “I’ll break anything I goddamn want, but two are true. I swear it.”

From beside her, Todd furrowed his stupid little plucked eyebrows and tapped his chin with an index finger. “Can you say them again? They were kinda long and I’m trying to form a calculation in my head, but—”

“No,” Bambi said, sliding her cool gaze over to him. Her red lips pursed and really, Todd should have seen this coming. “I don’t repeat myself.”

But from beside Julia, Quentin tucked his knees under his chin and frowned, staring off into the distance. “I think the lie is the one about the Russian circus. She always orders lattes at the coffee shop, so the detail about the semen in the _ macchiato _ throws the story off.”

He was right. The Russian story was total bullshit and Bambi had peppered in one small hint to give it away. Q was the Riddlemaster. Eliot tucked his lip between his teeth to hide a smile, swirling his melting ice in his glass as a distraction.

(There was still no sign of Alice, he realized, as he looked up and around the room. His chest clenched and winds blew in the distance.)

“Final answer, Coldwater?” Bambi’s face tilted into a sly serpent smile. Quentin stared into the abyss for two seconds before nodding.

“Correct!” Margo said with a bright yelp in the air, passing the joint over to Julia. She glared at her girlfriend, without heat. “I fuckin’ hate macchiatos. How do you not know this about me?”

“Well, to be fair, I genuinely thought they were all lies,” Julia said, relighting the tip of the joint with her tiny and quick fingers before puffing twice. Then she pulled her lips down into a sheepish, impish grimace, “But if that one wasn’t, I thought it was maybe, like, the _ origin story _of why you hate macchiatos?”

That made Margo laugh, a true and happy sound, and she rested her forehead on Julia’s shoulder. 

“No, they’re just bad,” she said. Her eyes twinkled when she looked up and scrunched her nose in Julia’s face, before she turned her slightly less warm eyes over to Quentin. “But okay, your turn, Q. Everyone else take a shot or a toke.”

Eliot opted for bourbon, courtesy of the small grouping of shot glasses next to Idri’s feet. He and Margo preferred drinking games that got everyone drunker sooner than later.

“Okay,” Quentin said, rubbing his hands together. His eyes brightened as he looked around, small smile on his face. He was always all in when it came to games. “I’ve got some good ones.”

“They have to _ actually _ be good, Quentin,” Margo said, exasperated. “Not whatever you think good is.”

He twisted his face and glared at her. “Uh, I understand the rules.”

“No, dipshit, I mean don’t be a boring nerd,” she said, leaning over and swatting at his foot. “At least two of them have to be personal and not your opinions on sci-fi and fantasy.”

It was an extremely fair restriction to put on him.

“Fine,” Quentin said with a deep frown, passing the joint to Eliot without smoking. The gears in his head turned and Eliot could see him recalibrating as their fingers brushed against each other. “Fine. Give me a second then.”

After a moment, Q took a deep breath and sat up, pulling his legs under him into one of his weird, uncomfortable looking squats that he loved so much. “Alright. So, uh, the first one is that despite my dating record, I consider myself a solid 2.5 or 3 on the Kinsey scale. The second is that my least favorite season of Buffy is season six—”

“That’s the only one, Q,” Margo warned, cutting him off. He flipped her off.

“—and the final one is that I once got stuck in a bowling gutter for three hours and now most of my nightmares are in some way or another, uh, bowling alley related.”

Ah. The Bowling Incident. Definitely a truth. Eliot popped the joint in his mouth and breathed in. He tried not to get too soppy at the idea of a tiny Quentin, sweet and melancholy and just so terrible at anything that required gross motor skills. He had probably been wishing he could play with his cards the whole time until someone forced him to take a turn, forever solidifying his hatred of anything even slightly athletic. It was too adorable. It made his whole body light up with affection.

Meanwhile, Julia played to win, so she snorted and kicked at Q, devious smile on her face. “Jesus, you made it too easy. Kinsey is the lie.”

“Final answer?” Quentin asked, impassive. He had the best poker face. It was hot. At his cool and expressionless face, Julia started to open her mouth, smug and wide, when words poured out of Eliot before he could stop them.

“I’m gonna contest that,” he said, and Quentin’s stare popped over to him, still not giving anything away. Julia frowned and crossed her arms. Eliot cleared his throat. “Ah, I think Buffy is the lie.”

“Explain your reasoning,” Julia said, annoyed. Eliot shrugged.

“Season six is his secret favorite,” he said through another puff of the joint before passing it to Idri. He could have sworn he saw Quentin’s lips quirk up. “He hates season four. He doesn’t even like Hush because of its ‘context.’ Which is bonkers, for the record.”

Idri frowned and tilted his head. “I think season four is underrated.”

“It’s not,” Quentin spat out, giving himself away. Julia deflated and gave Eliot a sharp, slightly too intense glare, before shrugging at Q and downing a shot.

“Guess I’m not up on my Quentin nerd facts,” she said, deceptively light. “I’ll have to do a refresher course.”

“El’s turn,” Quentin said, not quite looking at him as he smiled at his hands. “This should be good.”

“Except I’m not playing,” Eliot said with a long sigh. He kicked his legs out into the center of the circle, impervious to the jeers and boos around him. It had all been fun to watch, but he wasn’t up for spinning any stories.

But then a particularly devious thought hit him and he turned to his least favorite member of the group with an innocent glow in his eyes. “Todd, it’s a real shame that you haven’t gone yet. Take one for the team, hm?”

He had told Idri all about how ridiculous Todd was. It was time for him to see it in action, since he didn’t quite believe it. Apparently, Henry Fogg had raved about Todd as one of the brightest minds at Brakebills. He had even said he was a real possible successor to the deanship, somewhere down the road.

Fucking absurd.

“Wow. Yeah, I’d love to. Thanks, Eliot!” Todd said with a big, bright smile. 

Eliot caught eyes with Idri and snorted. The older man’s lips spasmed once, before he set his face forward, in a serious listening pose. Todd held his hands out excitedly and he bounced his knees, as he thought through his two truths and a lie, with every ounce of effort in his worthless brain.

Eventually, he took the last deep breath he would die quite some time… and Idri’s eyebrows raised higher and higher up his smooth head as the monologuing commenced:

“Okay, so my first one is that one time, I was super into this girl, right? Even though my mom was like, _ I’m not sure about her, Toddy, she seems like a not nice girl _ and I said, _ Mom, fucking chill, bro. _ Well, no, I didn’t say that, I’m a good son. But it would have been funny, right? Calling my mom _ bro _ ? Classic. Anyway, I told her that she didn’t need her to worry because Nina—her name was Nina, so sometimes I called her _ mi niña _ and she really hated that, like, a lot. Anyways, then she said she was, uh, in need of a kidney? Urgently? Like, she needed a kidney in two days, she said?”

One breath broke through.

“To be totally real with you guys, I gotta day she didn’t _ seem _ super sick, but I had recently learned that it’s ableist to assume that someone isn’t sick just because they don’t look sick. Important stuff, not making light of it. Truth to power. Anyway, so because I didn’t want to be _ ableist, _ I didn’t question it. Meaning, obviously, since I was in love with her and wanted to do her a solid, I magically extracted my kidney and gave it to her, uh, in a Disney’s _ Tangled _themed cooler. It was pink with Rapunzel and a pretty good looking dude, for a cartoon, standing back-to-back with their arms crossed and her hair was, like, holding a bunch of shit and there was a frog on her shoulder or something? I’ve never seen that movie. Anyways—”

“What the hell?” Julia narrowed her eyes and coughed over the joint. “This is the lie, right?”

“It’s way too specific to be a lie,” Margo said, head tilted like she was observing a distasteful old timey freak show.

“—spoiler alert! She sold it,” Todd finished with big wide eyes and a laugh. Idri took a long sip of his drink and sparked a quick amused glance at Eliot as the absurd speciman of a human kept fucking talking.

“Anyway, my second truth or lie is that when I was five, I had, like, a major epidemic of warts. But it turned out, they were _ magical _ warts and it was really, uh, how I discovered that I had a reserve of energy within me, even though I couldn’t do magic until my second semester at Brakebills—”

“How the fuck did you pass The Trials?” Quentin asked, face scrunched in genuine confusion and interest.

“That’s a whole other story, way less interesting than my magic warts though,” Todd said, starting to take off his shoes. “Here, I’ll show you what I mean, because the leftover scars are a real befuddlement in and of themselves—”

“Todd,” Margo said, sharply. “What’s the thing I always say about you? You’re doing it again.”

His shoulders slumped and his smile dimmed a little. “That I say three boring things every time I open my mouth.”

“That’s right,” Margo said, purring. “So let’s be a little more efficient.”

Todd brought hands up to his lips, palms flat against each other like a prayer. He bowed once and quickly. “You’re very terrifying.”

Margo shimmied her shoulders. “I know. Be better.”

A hit of wit slammed into Eliot’s chest and he winked at Idri. He’d appreciate this, if the barely concealed laughter swimming in his tense muscles was any indication.

“Hmm, that works out. Because that’s _ definitely _ his lie,” he said, wrapping his lips around a newly appeared bong with perfect suction. He was well practiced. He breathed in, bubbling, before tilting his head back and letting the magic smoke course into his lungs. He blew fireworks out his mouth. 

“He doesn’t say three boring things every time he opens his mouth,” Eliot clarified with a wicked grin. “Not at all.”

Todd shook his head, smiling sycophantically. “I really, really appreciate the kind words, but that wasn’t actually my final Truth or Lie story. It’s just something Margo makes me acknowledge whenever I—”

Rakish as he ever was, Eliot handed the bong over to the next set of hands, before fluttering his lashes right at Todd’s dumb face.

“But I know you would never limit yourself like, not when you obviously have such _ infinite _ boring stories to regale us with,” he said, leaning back on his palms and cracking his neck. His smile widened. “I believe in you, Todd.”

Idri lost it, the laughter tumbling out along with residual smoke. Across from him, Margo ran her tongue over her smiling teeth, giggling back. Todd’s eyes dipped down briefly, before popping back up at Eliot, good-humored as ever. He was such a chump.

“That’s a good one, Eliot,” he said, wringing his hands and nodding. He swallowed, looking off to the side. “I especially like how you brought in what I say to people in the morning. Extra clever. Kudos, man.”

Meanwhile, Idri placed his big hand on the space between his upper thigh and knee, and gave Eliot the biggest smile he’d seen yet, with an edge of desire in his eyes. “You weren’t joking when you said you perfected the art of the bite.”

Eliot gasped, holding his hand to his chest, the rush of flirting pumping blood through his veins. “I would never joke about biting, good sir.”

“Jesus Christ, do you _ always _ have to be such a dickhead?”

He rolled his eyes at the inevitable wet blanket words, from the other side of the circle. Eliot snapped his face over at Julia with a sharp retort of his own on his tongue...

… Until reality settled on his teetering bones.

It hadn’t been her voice.

Blinking back blurred confusion, Eliot slowly turned his head until he met the hot and flashing stone eyes of a furious Quentin Coldwater. 

Blood rushed and thumped in his ears as all his confidence reserves failed him. His voice was pathetically weak as he let out a small, nervous laugh.

“What?” Eliot swallowed, one hand splaying on the ground for stability and the other dipping into his waistcoat for his flask. He had a feeling he would need it.

“You’re being a dickhead,” Quentin repeated, more vicious than Eliot even knew he was capable of sounding. “Again.”

Eliot blinked, looking around the circle at the people he gave even a slight shit about. He saw Todd’s face jump into shock. Idri looked passively amused and concerned, and Margo’s eyes sharpened like a hunter, ready to pounce as necessary. Only Julia remained unmoved, as though this was nothing extraordinary. She pressed her lips into a line and kept her dark brown eyes on Quentin, steady and only slightly cautious.

Eliot forced another laugh, to diffuse the tension. “It’s—not that serious, Q.”

“Yeah, because nothing’s fucking serious to you,” Quentin said, spitting down into his fidgeting hands. His cheeks were burning red. “Do you understand that your words don’t exist in a vacuum? That they can affect and hurt people? I know in your head it’s always the fucking _ Eliot Waugh Show _and we’re all supposed to act like we’re goddamn privileged to bear witness—”

Enough.

Eliot was the master of self-berating, but he’d be damned if he was going to let one of his best parties be dragged down by this bullshit. He was sure he deserved whatever he’d done to spark this colossally cunty response from Quentin, and he fully acknowledged that. But it didn’t mean the others should have to put up with it.

“Quentin,” he said, keeping his voice low and firm. “Let’s talk in private, okay?”

But Quentin just laughed, a high-pitched and hysterical sound. Julia flinched, her hand reaching out to him, but he stood and pushed her away. He ran his fingers through his hair and glared down at Eliot, his teeth almost bared.

“No. Fuck that. I don’t want to talk to you,” Quentin snapped out, each word a lash against Eliot’s heart. He offered back a tight smile at Q, trying to keep his shit together, and he opened his flask. The liquor slid down his throat easily.

Which was good, because Quentin wasn’t done. “Everyone deserves better than your shit. Margo and Julia deserve better. Alice deserves better. Todd deserves better—”

At the siren call of his own name, Todd perked up. He walked over slowly, like he was approaching a scratchy cat in heat, and placed a tentative hand on Q’s shoulder. “Quentin, hey, I appreciate what you’re trying to do here, but it’s fine. Eliot and I are cool.”

“No, you’re not,” Quentin said, with a sputtering sound from the side of his mouth. “He fucking hates you, Todd.”

Todd recoiled like he was slapped, and that made Eliot want to slap the shit out of _ Quentin _ , mostly for making him feel sympathy for Todd of all fucking people . It certainly didn’t help that at Todd’s stricken expression, Quentin just threw his hands up in the air and shrugged like, _ Welp, what are you gonna do _ _ ? _

Eliot narrowed his eyes and put on his best warning voice. “Q.”

“No, no. Eliot doesn’t—” Todd smiled, before it faltered, like he was thinking through the statement and reaching a brand new conclusion. He blinked and shook his head before turning mournful eyes right on him. “Wait, you—you hate me?”

Eliot wanted to say it was an overstatement.

But.

Well.

He widened his eyes helplessly at Bambi, as though she could save him. “I—”

“Because I thought we were, like, friends,” Todd continued, his boyish face crumpling. “You know, friends who give each other shit. Or, well, where _ you _ give _ me _ shit, but I didn’t think—”

Quentin grabbed his drink from the floor and a finished all of it in a single gulp. He swallowed heavily and shook his head, finger wagging in the air. It was not a series of motions that portended good things.

“Oh, no, he hates you. I can personally expound on the many, many ways he hates you. And, uh, spoiler alert,” Quentin cupped his hands around his mouth and mock-whispered, “_ all of _ _ them are _ _ really _ _ goddamn petty _.”

“Oh,” Todd said, staggering backward. His face fell and Eliot felt like the biggest piece of shit.

… Well, the second biggest piece of shit, he thought _ pettily _, glaring over at Quentin. But Q just stared him down, fully remorseless. The thick silence rang heavy in his ears and Quentin started to pace, snapping his eyes away from Eliot and wrenching his hand into his hair.

“But the real fucking problem—” he started to say, but a stronger presence cut him off, hard.

“Shut the fuck up, Quentin,” Margo said, flat and quiet. She stood without touching the ground, her eyes stabbing him. “You’re not accomplishing what you want to accomplish here.”

His shoulders slumped and he rubbed the space between his brows, sighing. Eliot felt an inexplicable rush of sympathy for him and an even more inexplicable urge to wrap his arms around him, to tell him that it was okay. But his pounding heart, furious and shell shocked, kept him grounded on the floor, drinking away the whole damn scene in front of him.

“I’m not trying to accomplish anything, Margo,” Quentin said, rough and low. “I’m—I’m just tired.”

“Then go to bed,” Bambi said, with neither warmth nor anger. Quentin didn’t give her the same courtesy.

“You know I meant existentially,” he snapped.

Margo’s most dangerous growl returned. “Go to bed anyway.”

“I don’t _ want _ to go to bed,” Quentin said, petulant as a motherfucker. It snapped Eliot out of his frozen numbness and a hot spike of anger ripped through him. He let out a cold laugh, expelling his freeze.

“Congratulations,” Eliot hissed up at him and Quentin’s face turned slowly toward him, uncharacteristically viper like. He didn’t care. “You’re as emotionally evolved as a toddler.”

Quentin smiled, a false and wide stretch of his mouth. He even showed his teeth, which was rare of an occurrence as anything. Somewhere deep in his chest, Eliot’s soul thrummed painfully, wishing he could have sparked a toothy smile from Q, for real, because he had made him so happy that he lost himself.

But that wasn’t reality. That wasn’t how the world worked. That wasn’t how it would ever work for someone like Eliot.

“There’s that award winning wit again!” Quentin said, clapping his hands like an actual shithead instead of the cute kind. He was manic. “Really, bravo, Eliot. You know, if you put even half that energy of yours into, I don’t know, not being a _ massive asshole _—”

Eliot stood, looming over Quentin at his full height. He was no delicate flower, ready to lay down and take it. “I thought you said you were over that.”

“I guess you’re not the only practiced liar between us,” Q said, striding forward, angry heat rolling off him in tangible waves. Eliot ignored, ignored, _ ignored _ the arousal forming in the dizzy pit of his stomach and licked his lips, sharpening his eyes to a point so all he saw was fucking bratty, pissy, goddamn embarrassing Quentin Coldwater.

He kept his voice calm, with only the edge of an angry whisper. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

The corner of Quentin lip twitched up toward his nose and his eyes set hard. But before he could spit out whatever bullshit was waiting on his tongue—the same tongue that had licked its way up the contours of Eliot’s neck, slid in and around his mouth like a tease, wrapped around his fingers as he sucked, eyes blazing up with a promise—Julia’s hand found its way between them. She tugged Q toward her, ripping him away from Eliot before either of them could do something stupid. And since Eliot was very, very ready to do something very, very stupid, it was probably for the best.

“Okay, Q. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Julia said, taking exaggerated deep breaths in and out, like it might inspire him to breathe with her. “You and I are going to go upstairs and we’ll read some Fillory—”

“Oh my god, Julia,” Quentin threw his shoulders up to his ears and retreated, pacing away from her in a circle. “Back the hell off. I’m fine.”

Julia snorted, with the hint of an amused smile on her lips. “Yeah, you definitely seem fine.”

“I don’t need your patronizing bullshit right now,” Quentin said, flat and staring off at nothing. “I’m not your defective little pet.”

Her smile widened into a light warning. “Don’t lash out at me because you’re pissed at him.”

Behind her, Todd backed his way into the couch and sat down, arms wrapped around himself. Margo was pacing back and forth, glaring at everyone as intently as she could, like the sheer fury in her eyes would shut the world down. The only person who seemed to have no response at all was Idri. He was drinking and staring up at the ceiling, like he was listening to a half-interesting radio program.

“So is anyone ever going to tell me what the fuck is going on here?” Margo finally demanded, hands on her hips. Honestly, Eliot would have appreciated a primer himself, even if a small part of his trembling heart was whispering _ You know, you idiot _. He didn’t know. Not really. And he wouldn’t know, especially if Quentin was going to keep refusing to talk to him, for real.

Quentin pressed his palms into his eyes and shook his head violently, smiling again, all teeth. It was unnerving.

“It’s nothing, Margo. I’ve just always been Julia’s little charity case,” Q said, with almost no inflection as he refused to look at anyone. “You know, her pathetic depressed friend that she gets to aggressively cheer up anytime he’s sad, which is always. It’s an easy way to get your do-gooder boner off. Right, Jules?”

_ Fuck, baby, stop _, Eliot thought helplessly, taking a single step closer to him, like a magnet. Julia raked her hand through her hair as she nodded, eyes schooled on Quentin’s face. Her lips spliced into a hard smile before she reached behind her, grabbed her bag, and threw it over her shoulder. She stalked her way over to her best friend and turned her face up at him.

“Go the fuck to bed, Quentin,” she said quietly, before turning away and slamming the door behind her.

Margo muttered _ Shit _ under her breath and shot a quick apologetic look at Eliot, before disappearing hot on her girlfriend’s trail. Made sense. He was used to Margo running off after Julia by this point. It was the way the stage was set now.

(Quentin wasn’t the only one who was _existentially__ tired_.)

The silence was heavy and ringing again, but this time, a gentler voice broke it. Idri stood up and chuckled, that same warm sound thudding against the tension. He ran his hand across the back of Eliot’s shoulders and hummed, looking between the three remaining men, all in various states of distress.

“It appears we’ve reached that point in the drunken revelry where Queen Mab turns on our humors. Happens to the best of us, I know firsthand,” Idri said, brushing ash off his trousers. “So with that in mind, I shall bid you all adieu.”

Quentin finally lowered his hands from his eyes and blinked at Idri, still without expression.

“You know, you two really are perfect for each other,” he said, letting his mouth tilt down into an almost academic frown. “Neither of you can stand it if you’re not the center of attention for one goddamn second, huh?”

Eliot barked out a laugh. “Jesus, Q.”

But calm and collected Idri just smiled, slightly wane and fully sighing. “I sincerely hope all of your evenings improve. Especially yours, Quentin. Good night.”

“Bye,” Quentin said without inflection but certainly with a harsh wave in the air, eyes wide and unfocused. Because that kind of reaction helped matters so fucking much. But Idri just chuckled again. As he gathered his bag, he placed his hand on Quentin’s shoulder, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin.

“There’s no need for that,” Idri said, all kindness. He patted once, before lifting his hand like it had never been there. He leaned in toward Q and spoke so low that Eliot could only barely make out his words. “I truly hope you can see that I’m very obviously no threat, Quentin.”

“Um? Fine? All I said was bye,” Quentin said, a fucking goddamn brat. “It’s standard, culturally. Weren’t you leaving?”

Okay.

Enough.

Eliot ran his tongue along his front teeth and squared his whole body and all of his rage, and hurt, and fucking exhaustion right at Quentin. Idri had done nothing to him. If he had a problem with Eliot, that was fine. They’d work it the fuck out. They probably had to do that, for real, at some point, when Quentin wasn’t hiding behind cute little hypotheticals (_ “Penny’s my best friend,” come on, Q _) or lashing out at his friends or dragging Fucking Todd into this shit. They needed to hash it out, for real. But Idri had never been anything but kind to Quentin and Quentin had never been anything but a total dick to him.

It was enough.

He sucked his cheeks into his teeth and regarded Quentin coolly. “Adorable as your pissy baby act is—”

“No,” Quentin whispered, whipping back to stare at Eliot. His eyes were watery and red and haunted. “You don’t get to look at me like that. Fuck you, Eliot.”

_ Fuck you, Eliot. _

Yes. Well. That made sense, didn’t it?

A strange calm settled over him. It was like standing on a cold mountain, late at night. Snow toppling like a wave and plunging into the pines below. The frozen ground cracking like glass under his bare feet. He stood naked with winds whipping in the purple gloom. The sky was white-blue-black, shades of darkness toward the earth. The world smelling like everything and nothing, sensation rubbing his nostrils raw.

Eliot had never been to the mountains. He never intended to go to the mountains.

But there was an undeniable rush of nothing, a frost that solidified his blood but didn’t put him on edge. Didn’t rile him up further. He was disconnected from all his senses, except the chilled void around him.

It made it easier to calmly continue with his evening, which he appreciated. 

What kind of host would he be otherwise?

“Well put, Quentin,” Eliot said, clapping his hands together. He ticked his head once and plastered on another one of his best smiles, to mix things up. Never bore them. “On that note, I’m going to go clean up. No rest for the weary.”

Quentin shuffled on his feet and scratched at his brow, as his eyes fluttered shut. “El—”

Nope.

“Have a good night, everyone,” Eliot said, keeping his voice bright as anything, retreating toward the kitchen. He floated away, carefree and valiant. He spun on his heels once and bowed to his newest friend, never once looking over at Q. “Take care, Idri.”

Idri frowned and sighed, shaking his head. “Good night, Eliot.”

With a final salute to no one, Eliot strode over to the bar and started organizing. He drank from his flask. He cleaned the glasses, with two twists of his hand. He drank from his flask. He put the bottle tops back on. He drank from his flask. He halted the magic and reset the spirals, so the energy wouldn’t burn out. He drank from his flask. He wiped down an errant spill. He drank from his flask. He rearranged the garnishes, in their proper containers. He drank from his flask. He stacked the coasters neatly in the corner.

He drank from his flask.

It was enough.

* * *

tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come hang out with me on Tumblr, @HMGfanfic! Or not. That's cool too. :)


	8. Badly Done, Pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek, I posted late again. My B. It’s because I added more words to this thing, and writing all of it was basically like Horcruxing. Am Icarus.
> 
> On that note, we’re in the homestretch! Happiness is around the bend, but I’m still giving one final angst warning here. Many thanks to the always wonderful Rizandace for some last minute beta help on a particularly vexing scene and general idea-bouncing. (By the way, if you haven’t read [Running All This Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20496536/chapters/48640514) wait no longer please! It’s so good.)
> 
> Also, uh, in unrelated news, let’s all note the rating change.
> 
> ...kthxbye.
> 
> P.S. This story is now officially longer than Something Good. That was definitely not the original plan!

** _Brakebills University, December 18, 2016_**

** _*_ **

**(Part Six of Our Fabulous Story, Continued, Entitled: “Consequences” Spur “Actions”)  
  
**

***  
**

**(Alternate Title: Would You Hold Eliot’s Champagne, Please?)**

* * *

Eliot waited a whole hour before going to find Q. He was the most patient man alive, he was the most pathetic man alive.

How Dickensian.

Unfortunately, the safety of the mountain had disappeared.

It faded into a cloud of smoke, wisping away as he stabbed his spent cigarette into his favorite ashtray. The jade ceramic clanged against the kitchen counter as the force spun it out and into the tile backsplash. The sound jolted his nerves and sent a rush of overwhelming _ sadness-despair-fury _ around his glass heart, squeezing until it cracked. 

With a steadying breath, Eliot turned on the faucet and cupped his hands under the cool running water, splashing his face once. He closed his eyes and let the droplets fall down his lashes, with small rivers zig-zagging down the contours of his face.

He should have been drunker.

Truly, Eliot wished he was drunker. But upon his arrival back to earth, everything was haywire. From his aching gut to his rushing blood to the relentless taunts of his perfectly cruel mind, he was too keyed up to feel the effects of alcohol. He couldn’t sink into that twinkling calm, where everything blurred and eased and disappeared. 

Instead, his fingers twitched and danced, no matter how much he willed them to stillness. His chest vibrated with the strength of his heart rate. He knew that meant he should call it a night and try to sleep. Or, if sleep were evasive, he should lay the hell down and watch Dirty Dancing on his contraband laptop until his eyeballs were glue and his tongue was numb from repeating all the lines into the darkness, like a deranged person.

But the relentless buzzing on his skin and the itch along his scalp and the pools of hot sweat in the center of his palms weren’t going to go anywhere. Not unless—

Not unless he found Quentin and _ dealt with this _, right the fuck then.

Solid plan. 10/10.

(Who gave a shit?)

The living room was mostly empty, save a few blacked out stragglers making their way upstairs and a few final spent glasses scattered about. It was embarrassingly early for a party to fizzle, but he didn’t care. He was even grateful for it, considering. But in any case, as Eliot walked with purpose past the pristine bar and clapped the remaining lights low, he didn’t even bother looking anywhere but the one place he knew he’d find Q. 

Quentin claimed he hated how predictable he was, but he rarely did anything to actually change how fucking predictable he was. Normally, Eliot found it adorable. Right now, though, he wasn’t sure if he found much about Q adorable, least of all his whiny refusal to change. (_ You’re a terrible liar _, his traitor heart mocked.) But he appreciated the ease of the search regardless. It meant he wouldn’t have to waste any unnecessary time before getting into it.

Beside a roaring fire, the Cottage’s reading nook was mostly closed, save a sliver of light between the patterned double doors. The tiny peek revealed the bunched up edge of a bright green blanket and the tip of a scuffed black boot, scrunched into the line awkwardly. 

Bingo.

Gathering himself up, Eliot floated over and held his fist over the doors, ready to offer a polite knock and lightly announce his presence, so not to startle. Quentin was jumpy on a good day and this was decidedly not a good day. Better to be careful. Better to be gentle. It was always better to be gentle with his Q.

But with an unexpected shock of fury, Eliot’s jaw tightened and his molars clenched into each other. His palms tingled and broke into a cold and clammy burst of frustration. 

Yeah, no. 

On second thought, _fuck_ _that_.

So before he could think three times, he ripped the door open and the boot scrunched back, as alarmed as expected. Eliot glared down at the elaborate red and gold pattern of the built in cushions. He breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, just like Margo’s goddamn fucking yoga. He closed his eyes and nodded, not daring to look at Quentin’s face quite yet. He bit his tongue so hard it punctured and a low stream of copper flooded around his teeth. His whole body was resisting, but still he ducked his head in, mind made up.

Eliot slid into the nook with crouched shoulders and feet before settling next to the tense lines of a hunched back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Quentin curled in on himself around his book, the first of the Fillory series. His face was stony and eyes darting, but he didn’t vocally protest his presence.

Always so generous.

“So,” Eliot said, stretching the vowel and cracking his neck. He looked straight ahead and closed the little doors with telekinesis. He kept staring, but not at Q. “Wanna have a chat about whatever the fuck that was?”

“Right,” Quentin said with a barking laugh. He flipped his page too hard, the sound more of a rip than a flutter. “Because it must be something deeper, not just that you were a total fucking asshole.”

With a low chuckle, Eliot swallowed all his vicious first instincts about how to respond to that. Then he swallowed the second ones too.

He reminded himself that Quentin was like this sometimes. He circled back to his original thesis, which was that it was important to stay calm. Cautious even, and not make any sudden sharp movements or words, lest Q dash off into the night. Eliot had already pushed his luck with his dramatic entrance, so now he had to at least try to be delicate. Even if he didn’t exactly feel _ delicate _ at the moment.

Time to tap dance on some goddamn eggshells.

“Pretty frankly, Q, I’ve said way worse shit in front of you before,” Eliot said, methodical and quiet. He still didn’t look at him. “I don’t think it’s a huge stretch to say this isn’t about your deep kinship with Todd.”

Quentin went audibly still at that. Then Eliot’s pulse skipped when a hint of _ his _ Q came through, just the tiniest little sighing sound of guilt. But it cut off, like Quentin caught himself, and he shifted away from Eliot, a scrape of a boot against the thin wall. It was enough to make him finally glance over, to take in Quentin’s tense and crumpled form in the low yellow light. His eyes were dark, over patchy red cheeks. Like he might have been crying.

Well. Shit.

_ Shit _.

Heart pulsating in his throat and choking him until he couldn’t breathe, Eliot slammed his head backward. He was so stupid. He was so weak. 

Eliot closed his eyes and pushed back his truly fucking stupid desire to gather him on top of his chest and murmur even stupider words into his soft hair—words like _ It’s okay, sweetheart, we’ll figure it out, I’ve got you _—and instead laced his own hands together in his lap. He kept his eyes on his interlocked knuckles for another long beat, debating how quickly and gracefully he could get the hell out of there.

Except—

He couldn’t do that, if only from being too exhausted to run anymore. So he sniffed up all his courage and patience, paltry as they were, and spoke.

“Q, what’s going on?” Eliot lolled his head against the wood paneling and forcing a sad smile. He hoped it would remind Quentin that they were friends. That at the end of the day, they were on the same side and the same team. That they both still cared about each other and wanted to get to the other side, even if shit was raw right now.

But his gentle attempt at disarming fell flat.

Quentin snorted, derisive, and buried his face in his pages. “That’s a dumb question, Eliot.”

The litany of drums pounding _ You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up _beat ever more relentless against the hot column of his spine, growing louder. It made his ears hot and his mouth taste like metal. But Eliot just turned the volume down and moved forward, breathing and keeping calm. Still, with a violent snap, the light in the nook flickered and Eliot wondered if he’d done it. He wasn’t sure. It was possible. 

Things were haywire.

Quentin lifted his eyes up at the intrusion, shoulders jolting in a hint of jumpy surprise before swallowing. One hand on his heart, he slammed his book into his lap and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“So, like, shouldn’t you be with Idri right now?” As he spoke, Quentin stared at one of the nook’s empty corners, like it was the center of the universe. Eliot resisted the urge to laugh, wide and harsh, at his fucking audacity. 

He wasn’t going to make this easy, huh?

“Idri left,” Eliot said, factual and outwardly unmoved. “You were there.”

“Sorry if I cockblocked you,” Quentin said, flat voiced over a petulant shrug. He still stared at the corner, though the muscles between his eyebrows spasmed.

Eliot ran his tongue along his teeth and spat out a clipped, “Still in a charming mood, I see.”

“Well, gosh,” Quentin spat right back, eyes unnaturally wide but still not fucking looking at him. “We can’t all be Eliot Waugh now, can we?”

_ Honey, you could _ never _ be. _

That was the earth scorching retort on the tip of his tongue. 

It would have shut him down, that was for damn sure. Because Eliot knew—_ he knew _ —that there was a part of Quentin that desperately wished he was more like him. He wished he had Eliot’s ease, practiced and perfected as it was. He wished he could be one draped over Margo, the one with the quick joke, the one who was fun and sparkling and well-dressed, the one who could manipulate magic without even thinking about it and who always just let out a languid sigh about how it was such a _ bother _. Even if they never spoke of it, it was absolutely there and Eliot absolutely knew it. 

It would have been easy. So easy. 

Too easy. 

Breath shuddering, Eliot rolled the words around his mouth and stretched them wide into a pained smile. They sunk into his skin and disappeared, obviously for the best. But then there was nothing he _ could _ say, nothing that wouldn’t destroy everything left to destroy. So he shut his mouth tight and stared, itching for his flask.

The strangling silence didn’t last long though. Quentin had even less tolerance for quiet than he did, for better or worse.

“People take their cues on how to treat Todd from you,” he burst out, hands and pages flying. “You know that, right?”

Eliot’s furrowed brow and sputtering lips came before he could stop them, capped off with a decadent eye roll.

“Please,” he said for further emphasis. “Like I’m some overlord? We’re all adults. Todd’s fine, living his best hapless life.”

But that made Quentin pull his knees into himself and shake his head. His eyes were unfocused, but he reopened his book nonetheless, balanced on the divot between his legs. Like there was any chance he was still reading. Ridiculous.

“You can’t—you cannot have it both ways,” Q said, pushing his hair back. He slit his eyes over with a piercing snap of anger. “Are you top alpha dog of Brakebills or not?”

Once again, Eliot couldn’t help it. He tucked his lip between his teeth to stop a smile. “_ ‘Top alpha dog?’ _”

Wrong move.

“Yeah, let’s poke fun at Quentin’s nerdy idioms instead of dealing with the—the—the question at hand,” Q said, a pained stutter slipping out. Frustrated, he curled into himself even more and shook his head so hard that his hair tie fell out. “God, sometimes I think you’re so fucking emotionally stunted that—”

“Obviously I’m emotionally stunted,” Eliot cut in, because, like, duh. This wasn’t new information for anyone, least of all Q. “Have you met me?”

Quentin snarled his lip and huffed his arms across his chest. “Sure, but, uh, I think you use that as an excuse not to delve into anything that, um, actually matters.”

... No shit, Q.

“That’s the definition of being emotionally stunted,” Eliot said, his eyelashes flying up. He tried speaking Quentinese to drive the point home. “One can’t use emotional stuntedness to _ excuse _ emotional stuntedness. That’s just—what being emotionally stunted is. Snake’s tail feast, et cetera.”

Didn’t work. Didn’t help.

“Yeah, don’t try to out pedant me,” Quentin said, unnervingly cool. “You’ll lose, asshole.”

Eliot bit the inside of his cheek and faced away again, not able to bear that feelingless expression. “Ah, so we’re back to petty insults. Lovely.”

“Maybe you could try not being an asshole,” Q suggested helpfully. “Then I won’t have to call you one.”

Eliot was so tired.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, wishing they were cucumber slices. He wished he was sipping a gin drink out of a long straw, warm breeze all around. He wished he was floating on a pink raft in a blue infinity pool on a Greek island, without a single goddamn soul anywhere near him. 

Eliot dug his hands in harder, like maybe if he just fucking _willed_ it, it would come true. If he just _wanted_ it _enough_—

Ugh. 

No dice.

He was still in the goddamn nook, with his goddamn best friend who was acting like a total stranger. Great. What the fuck was the point of magic, anyway? Worthless. He wanted a refund.

“I’m not trying to be an asshole, Q. I’m trying to make this better,” Eliot said, low. He was certain his face was cracked open and desperate when he looked back over, pleading. “Can you please talk to me?”

Quentin didn’t give him a damn thing. “I am talking.”

“I mean for real,” Eliot clarified unnecessarily. His fingers jumped along the seam of his trousers and his throat was dry. “You’ve never reacted like this to anything since I’ve known you. Gotta be honest, it’s fucking unsettling.”

Quentin stared at him for a beat before he sighed, a promising sign. His shoulders slumped and he slid a hand down his face, fingers smoothing out the hard, tense lines of his jaw. Eliot didn’t reach out and touch his arm, a herculean task. He just waited.

“Maybe I’m—sick of not reacting to you, El,” Quentin finally said, so quiet it was barely audible. But Eliot heard it and it made him smile, even if it shouldn’t have. Because that he could work with.

(Well, that, and Q had called him _ El, _a spark of hope in an abyss.)

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Eliot said, turning toward him, inches away but still not daring to touch. “Can you expand on that for me?”

Quentin laughed. It wasn’t real and his heart sunk.

“You are not my therapist,” Quentin said, shuffling forward on his ass and kicking open the doors. Shit. “You’re not a therapist.”

He pushed forward and his feet hit the ground, ready to walk away. Shit. _Shit._ Eliot panicked and grabbed the crook of his elbow, gentle as he could while keeping him in place. 

“I know I’m not,” Eliot said, speaking to Q’s clenched jaw because he was refusing to look at him again. “But I’m your friend and I’m trying to figure out what the hell is—”

At that, Quentin let out a sound that could only reasonably be described as half-laugh, half-owl screech. His angry eyes flashed backwards at Eliot, hiding no insignificant pain. His jaw worked as he sniffed and he roughly pulled his arm away, leaving Eliot shaking behind him.

“_ Fuck _, El, if you don’t get it then—then just leave me alone,” Quentin said, voice cracking as he hugged himself. “Please.”

Eliot hit the cushion as he fell back and watched Quentin shuffle away. Chest caving in, he was certain the nook was going to swallow him alive, until there was nothing left but a puddle of magical energy and a gorgeous silk vest. The cold numbness started to spiderweb up his arms from the tips of his fingers. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted his flask. Where the hell was his flask?

But his body apparently had a mind of its own.

Against all odds, a hot flare in his gut fueled him forward, bold and crazed. Before he could second guess himself, Eliot jumped out into the living room. He grabbed Quentin by the shoulders and ignored his surprised yelp, rounding on him until Q was pressed against the nearby bookshelf.

“No,” Eliot said, with one hand trapping Quentin where he was. His index finger painfully stubbed against a book called _ Magnets and Magicians: The Metaphysical Mystery _, but he kept his eyes pinned down, all determination. His chest heaved in and out, looming and furious.

“Eliot,” Quentin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His hand dropped and his sad, red-rimmed eyes met his. “Come on. Let this go.”

Sad Quentin was a special form of kryptonite, Eliot had to admit. Over the rapidly forming lump in his throat, he sighed and tilted his head, running his free hand up and down the rough fabric of Quentin’s rumpled sports coat. He ducked his head down, trying to soften, trying to soothe. But his skin was still vibrating, gut still burning with tenacity.

“No,” he repeated and he couldn’t even be embarrassed by how it wobbled out. “No, I’m not going to do that.”

“God,” Quentin snapped, blaze back in his eyes as he bit his teeth up at him. A glower spread across his whole face, pissed off again. “You are so _ fucking _—you are—”

“I’m what, Q?” Eliot dipped in closer, beseeching. His chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. “Tell me.”

“You’re an asshole,” Quentin said again, nostrils flaring. But his Adam’s apple bobbed and if it wasn’t completely insane, completely out of context, Eliot would have sworn his darkened eyes flicked down to his lips. 

Which. 

Oh.

_ Oh _, no.

Eliot cleared his throat and shook his head, taking a deep breath. Focus. _ Focus _. He had to focus. He wasn’t an animal. Things were haywire, but he wasn’t an animal. Focus.

“Yeah, I got that,” he said, swallowing and keeping his voice steady. He did pretty well, considering. But Eliot tightened his hand on the edge of the bookshelf, sending any lingering tension into his knuckles. “Because I was such a meanie to poor Todd—”

Quentin slid the tip of his tongue along his teeth. Oh, no. “Come the fuck on, Eliot. Don’t—don’t be—you’re being purposefully disingenuous.”

Projecting calm, Eliot chuckled, murmuring over his thundering heart. “Makes two of us then. Good to be on the same page at least, no?”

“You’re an _ asshole _,” Quentin shot out again, screwing his eyes shut tight, hands fidgeting at his sides. “You’re—you’re—you’re—”

Oh, no. For real.

Not giving a shit about the situation, Eliot wrapped his hand around Quentin’s arm and stepped closer, “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. Breathe.” 

Eliot moved his thumb in circles, firm enough to feel through the sports coat. He made a low shushing sound and almost touched their temples together, because Eliot was always willing to be there, no matter what. Whenever Quentin started twitching like a short-circuiting electronic, he usually needed a physical interruption. He needed something to gently let him know to stop, that he didn’t need to keep trying to speak. And it didn’t matter how pissed off or hurt or whatever the fuck they both were—there was no world where Eliot was going to let him flounder. 

Sure enough, even in his agitated state, Quentin’s shoulders soon slumped and his chin fell to his chest, powering down. With it, the tension in Eliot’s chest unspooled, feet finding solid ground again. Now, they could fight, he reminded himself, even as tenderness threatened to drown him.

“God, you’re an asshole,” Quentin muttered into his shoes, heatless. But his own hands had found Eliot’s lapels, fingers running up and down the velvet edges. With a fond snort, Eliot nodded. 

“Be that as it may,” he said softly, speaking into his ear and still rubbing his arm. “I’m not letting you walk away until we talk. We have to _ talk _, Q.”

For several long beats, the only sound was the _ crack-snap-pop _ of the burning wood and the mingling of their labored breaths. After awhile, Eliot thought maybe Q wasn’t going to answer at all. Maybe Quentin would just keep staring at the ground, threading the velvet fabric between his hands, over and over, until dawn. If he were honest, he wouldn’t mind. He was warm and blurred, standing over Quentin, almost holding him, in an almost beautiful in-between. 

Eliot swayed a little, breathing in the same air as Q.

But with an audible swallow, Quentin finally raised his head and stared up through his lashes, soft brown eyes almost black. The yellow-orange firelight dappled against the angles of his face, so close to his own. His lips parted, twisting up into a soft wisp of a smile. Under his dark and heavy brow, their eyes met and the whole world diminished to Quentin’s irises.

“Talk?” Even with a breathless voice, Q managed to sound almost amused. His tongue darted out to wet his lips and he let out a small laugh. “You really wanna talk?”

The ground under Eliot’s feet lurched and he was lightheaded. He was seeing stars. His swooping stomach wrapped around the flare of heat and rushed downward, disloyal. He let out a long slow breath, bit the tip of his tongue and forced himself to nod, even as everything was floating out of reach.

“Yeah, I do,” he said, swallowing the rough dryness away. He schooled his face, forcing seriousness and gravity, intent on seeing this through. “I want to talk.”

But Quentin’s mouth softened further and his eyes glinted, glued on his, and holy shit, Eliot was _ fucked _. 

Heat spread like wildfire down his whole body, his cock calling way too much attention to itself. It never like being ignored, and when it pointed out how close they were—the mere inches between them, the body heat, the tickle of Quentin’s breath—it was being petulant. But _ oh _, it wasn’t wrong.

Unable to take it for another second, Eliot closed his eyes and turned his face away, taking a centering breath. Focus. “Quentin. I—we really need to hash some shit out. We need to talk.”

A warm hand cupped his jaw and nimble fingers grazed the line of his cheekbone, light and feathering, a reprise from an earlier act. He swallowed, leaning into the touch because he was so fucking weak. He heard a hitching breath, so close to him, and then a soft brush of lips moved along his jaw, up to the sensitive skin by his ear. 

One trail of fire later, everything _ crashed _. 

Eliot let out an involuntary gasp and dragged half-lidded eyes back down, ready to face surrender. He staggered forward, pressing the whole line of his body ahead, fingers finding soft hair and the warm nape of a neck. His skin thrummed and his cock hardened and the Earth shattered.

“_ We need to talk _ ,” Q repeated, with only a hint of mockery under a rough chuckle, tongue lightly tracing the shell of his ear, warm and wet and oh, _ god _. Then he whispered the death knell. “Since the fuck when has that mattered to you?”

The broken world moved at lightspeed, and Eliot’s lower lip was between Quentin’s teeth.

They rocked back against the bookshelf, texts tumbling down with their fierce kiss. Everything set on fire at once and Eliot grabbed at Quentin's hands, wrapped in his curls, and pinned them back against the books. He was rewarded with a delicious open mouthed groan, and so he smiled, a sharp movement of his lips. He traced just the tip of his tongue around the sounds Quentin made, slow and light, a tease to promise.

Quentin surged upward, fighting against the hold and beautifully losing, nipping at him like he was crazed. Eliot took pity and lowered his head, so their lips could meet again. He kissed him once, mockingly soft, before diving back in—all tongue and teeth and weeks of build-up, of jacking off to nothing but the rhythm of _ Quentin Quentin Quentin _ , of too many dreams and way too many memories. He had never wanted anyone more. He had never wanted _ anything _more.

“This what you want, El?” Quentin obviously got the picture, panting and almost smug when they broke apart. Pressing frantic kisses to the side of Q's face and down his jawline, Eliot’s blood sang _ Yesyesyes _ . He slotted their legs together, so Q could feel _ exactly _how much he wanted it. He sucked at his pulse point, grinding into him, beyond words.

But bratty goddamn Quentin wasn’t. He was reinvigorated, a study in contrast from the broken sadness from before.

He rolled Eliot’s earlobe between his teeth and laughed, hot against his skin. “You wanna fuck me? Maybe right here?”

Quentin’s arms fell with a thud, all so Eliot could grip back at the nape of his neck and kiss him with crushing force. “Don’t play with fire.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Q snapped out, taunting, free hands moving _ everywhere _. Eliot was going to rip him to shreds. “You said it’d be good.”

“It would be the best you’ve ever had,” he whispered, hot and messy against his throat, pushing him back and sliding into him, all sensation and no thought.

“Yeah?” Those fucking hands wrapped around his tie and yanked him down. “Prove it.”

Pathetic at his core, Eliot’s knees buckled and he braced his arms on either side of him, ducking down to kiss him again, frenzied and fevered. Q fisted at his shirt and pulled up toward him like he was trying to _ crawl _ him and _ fuck _, he tasted like booze and smoke and something unique that had haunted him for weeks, torture without any end in sight.

Quentin broke away to bite and suck at his neck, one deft hand sliding down until it palmed and wrapped around Eliot’s cock, the fabric between them suddenly the worst shit on the planet. Sliding his hand down the wool inseam, Q hummed in appreciation and Eliot was gone. Gone, gone, gone with the wind, dead and buried and alive for the first time, all at once.

“Fuck, you’re big. Wanna get my mouth on you, El,” Quentin whispered into his pulse. He swirled his tongue around as a preview and tightened his grip below. “Please?”

Everything went white and firework starred, and if Eliot didn’t get him on a flat surface he was going to rip the world apart with his bare bloody hands.

“Upstairs,” he heard himself rasp out, teeth sliding down Quentin’s cheek and hips gravitating closer, impossibly closer, with purpose. “We need—we need to go upstairs.”

Quentin didn’t need to be told twice and he pushed him back, again with that surprising strength. Eliot obliged, pulling him close as they moved, fingers tangled in each other’s hair.

They maneuvered blind through the living room, lips not parting and hands already undressing what they could. His elbow hit a table and his tie loosened. The back of his knee slammed against the couch and _ See ya later _, blazer. He tripped backwards over the first step, his vest opening and belt flying over the bannister. It would be a veritable hookup easter egg hunt later and the thought alone made him groan into Quentin’s mouth.

When they finally (_ finally _) reached the closer door, a wardbreaker was hastily muttered and they stumbled into the warm room, walls covered in Fillory posters and floor littered with scattered notebook paper. With a brief yet world-ending separation, Quentin shucked his tweedy sports coat off onto his floor and toed his boots off, while Eliot got with the program and did the same. Then Q fell backwards onto his bed and pulled Eliot on top of him, kissing like they would never stop again.

The blanket beneath them was navy blue, quilted soft and scented like _ Quentin _, and Eliot was losing his mind. He covered him with his longer body, surrounding him, settling between his legs. Quentin made a thrilling sound of want, lifting his hips to chase friction between their hard cocks. Eliot gripped at him—wholly fucking gratified—and rolled forward, biting his neck for good measure. The hot grind between them sent sparks up his spine, looping around the clenching pool of desire at the pit of his stomach. Fuck, it was already so good. So good.

Gasping up for air, Eliot pulled roughly at Q’s very annoying shirt.

“Get this off,” he demanded, pressing a hard kiss to his lips. “Now.”

“You too,” Quentin said, somewhere between breathy and rough, scratching his fingers up and under Eliot’s dress shirt, sliding into his chest hair. “Shit, you always wear so much fucking fabric. Drives me crazy.”

Head spinning, he nosed at Q’s throat, smiling through the haze. “What else drives you crazy?”

All at once, Eliot’s buttons flew open and he slid the shirt and vest down his arms, throwing them in a heap on the nightstand. They stripped each other of the rest of their clothes until they were in nothing but boxers and briefs. Hands racing up his chest, the buzzy thrill of bare skin under his hands burnt him alive.

“Literally everything about you,” Quentin hissed out, roughly pulling Eliot back up for another kiss. “You are the most infuriating person I’ve ever met in my life.”

Eliot slid his fingers into Quentin’s hair and tugged, sparkling nerves zinging at the moan he got in response. 

“Be more specific,” Eliot said, low against his throat.

As Eliot pressed his tongue against Q’s fast and intoxicating pulse, his hand moved even lower, through the downy softness of his chest hair and across the smooth skin over his stomach. Quentin trembled under his touch, breath coming quick. So Eliot traveled lower still, until he started stroking him featherlight through the thin fabric of his boxers.

“You’re a smug son-of-a-bitch,” Q said, arching his back and panting. As a reward for looking so pretty, Eliot kissed him and Quentin fucking _ growled, _ holy fuck. “You’re a snob. You’re a control freak. You don’t like Taylor Swift—“

“Not a fan of milk with my toast,” Eliot said sharply, egging him on. Quentin kissed him furiously.

_ Yesyesyes _, the choir sang and what else could Eliot do but kiss him and touch him, forever?

“You insist on your meals all having a bitter note for contrast even though no one likes bitter food, for chrissake,” Quentin continued, grinding into him with a soft sound, his annoyance a shoddy facade over how much he obviously wanted this. “And, like, you talk way too much about your dream journal. No one fucking _ cares _, El, unless they’re in it.”

Eliot spun them up to a seated position, with Quentin straddled on his lap.

“If you want to hear all about the dreams you star in,” he said, kissing the slope of his shoulder and speaking low into his skin (_ skinskinskin _), “you only have to ask, Coldwater.”

But Quentin just growled again, hands around Eliot’s face, fingers digging in a shade too hard. “I’m not done telling you how much you piss me the fuck off.”

“Mmm, my apologies,” Eliot said, curling his tongue once into his mouth, smug as Quentin clearly liked. “By all means, continue.”

Quentin wrapped his legs around his waist and every part of them was touching as they explored each other’s bodies, inhibitions chucked all over the room with their clothes.

“How clever you think you are when you mix up Star Wars and Star Trek. Shocker, people have made that joke before, you’re not original.” Quentin kissed him hard between each bullet point, tangling his hands back in his curls. “How vain you are. That you named your cologne _ Roi du soir _.”

Eliot had enchanted his signature scent with the sharp and sweet notes he imagined stardust smelled like. It was one of his greatest creations. So he squeezed Quentin’s ass and tugged him in closer, not fucking around.

“It’s a good name,” he said, low and guttural, his palms slowly riding up his back, igniting with the feel of him. He was breathless, heart gone.

“It’s a terrible name,” Quentin said, placing one kiss on the hinge of Eliot’s jaw before dipping down to unabashedly smell him and _ fuck _, that shouldn’t have done it for him but it really did. 

“Clearly a thing for you though,” Eliot teased, nipping once at his pouty lower lip. “So it can’t be that bad.”

Quentin snorted and bit back, metaphorically and literally. “You are so fucking cheesy.”

Some tiny rational part of him took issue with that, but his body was in the driver’s seat and his body wanted Quentin on the bed, squirming under him, naked and screaming his name. So Eliot pushed him down, their legs tangled together, cocks rutting through their underwear. 

… Why the fuck did they still have underwear on?

Eliot forced his eyes open and looked down, ready to lodge his formal complaint. But the vision under him stopped him in his tracks.

Quentin was already a ravished mess. His pupils were blown out and his lips were pink and swollen, kiss-bruised and debauched. His long hair splayed out, tangled and jutting every possible way. His skin was splotchy, gradients of pinks and red, and Eliot could count his heart beats from how his throat spasmed.

Eliot swallowed, heart catching with sudden longing, and he cupped his cheek, brushing his thumb against the grain of his stubble.

He was so fucking beautiful.

His beautiful Quentin.

“What else, Q?” Eliot murmured, resting their foreheads together for just a second. Just a short moment, so he could find his breath again. _ Fuck. _

Under him, Quentin made a keening sound, tilting his head to press a featherlight kiss to his lips. Then another, and another, until they were melting together, hot and slow and languid, a slide of lips and warm bodies.

“Your voice, saying my name,” Quentin whispered when he broke away, breath warm against his cheek. He steadily rocked into him, chasing pleasure and friction and something else, something Eliot wouldn’t dare name. “The way you say Q.”

Eliot could die and it would be okay. “That pisses you off?”

Quentin’s eyes found him, dark and angry and filled to the brim with that indefinable _ something _, humbling and bone terrifying. He cupped Eliot’s face in his hands, almost tenderly, but not quite. Then Q brushed his thumb along the bow of his lip, tingling in his wake, and Eliot could feel him swallow.

“Of course it pisses me off,” he said, voice low and thick and shaking. “It pisses me off every fucking day, you asshole.”

Eliot stilled, letting out a short huff of breath, drowning in Quentin’s big eyes. Slowly, he brushed his lips down his cheek, his jaw, nosing at the contour of his throat. He smelled like sweat and mint and a _ grass-paper-sage _ note that haunted his waking dreams. He kissed under his jawline, with all the feeling his yearning heart would allow.

Done with teasing, Eliot dipped a hand under the waistband of his boxers, fingernails scratching through the smattering of hair he found there. Quentin’s breath hitched and Eliot smirked, so he didn’t sob.

“Q,” he whispered, just below his ear. Moving in slow motion, he tilted his head to kiss just below his other ear. “Q. God, _ Q— _“

He kept murmuring his name as his hand traveled lower and lower, and Quentin shook under him, kissing him and kissing him, and making tiny little gasping sounds that Eliot would never forget, would never stop playing on an endless loop in his head, even after this was inevitably over, inevitably a huge mistake. A low voice in the back of his brain—or maybe his heart, weak fool that it was—scolded him, scoffing and judgmental and hissing, _ You’re doing this wrong _.

But Eliot shut it the fuck down, to finally take his beautiful boy in hand.

Immediately, Quentin moaned, levering on one arm and dipping his head back. He was the most beautiful man in the world. 

Overwhelmed with the urgent need to make it as good as fucking possible, Eliot muttered under his breath to pull out one of his best party tricks. When he finished speaking, his hand was warm and silken and slick. He curled his fingers around Quentin’s cock and stroked root to tip, painstaking and deliberate. It was the task he was born for.

“Is that good?” Eliot asked, quieter than the mood, lips sliding along Q’s bare chest, up his neck to his lips. He stroked his hand slow as he could, intending to take his god given time, all against the rhythm of his galloping heart. “Does that feel good?”

“Fuck, it does,” Quentin whimpered, sounding almost mad about it. His rolled his body toward him, urging him to pick up the pace. “Fuck, El.”

“You’re so _ hot _, Q,” Eliot said with a breathy laugh. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

It was an understatement. Quentin was glorious, beautiful, masculine. He was wiry, with sharp angles and soft hair, bowed lips and smooth skin, perfect ass and girthy thighs. He fucking astonishing in every detail and deserved to know it. But Eliot’s brain was as enraptured as his body already felt and he couldn’t pull out anything more poetic than that.

But the words still did something to Quentin too.

He gasped, endless eyes locking on his and turning the world over in his intensity. He jolted up and wrapped his arms around Eliot’s chest, pulling him down so they laid beside each other, foreheads touching. Quentin threw his leg across Eliot’s, so he could thrust into his hand as he kissed him, along his lips, his jaw, his neck. His hands moved all along the lines of Eliot’s chest, his shoulders, his face, urgent and wild, as though he might disintegrate at any moment. Overwhelmed, Eliot closed his eyes and let himself sink into bliss, never letting up his pace, determined to make Quentin feel as good as just his presence made _ him _ feel, every day.

Then, like something out of a fever dream, Q started moaning his name, over and over again—_ Eliot, Eliot, Eliot— _like it was the only word he knew, like it was the only prayer he ever wanted answered. And Eliot’s heart swelled, painful between his ribs, with that broken open tenderness.

“Q,” Eliot breathed out, free hand coming up to cup his face. He gave into himself, kissing Quentin soft and slow, gentling them into a languid slowness, a world where they could take their time, a world where they _ had _time. He kissed him as though his heart was free to love him the way he wanted to. Because, fuck, he loved him.

Eliot loved him _ so much. _

He panted, mindless, and full of everything in the world as he opened his mouth against the side of his face, taking all he could. “Q, _ baby _, sweetheart, I need you to know you are—to me, you are—”

He couldn’t finish his sentence though, because a firm hand pushed him back as reality crashed cold.

Then everything came into sharp focus when Quentin’s voice growled out, dangerous this time.

“Don’t do that,” he spat out, scooting away just enough to make his point. Eliot’s hand slipped down and fell numb against the bedding. “Don’t act like this more than what it is.”

The overhead light was stark and bright, illuminating the scene in a way he didn’t really want to see. Eliot was dizzy, blood rushing to his ears.

They were both nearly naked, ankles wrapped together, both breathing hard on Quentin’s double bed. They were in his room, his nerdy sanctuary. Every surface was covered in dark blues and reds, with fantasy creatures and concept art and perfect replicas of Fillorian flags imbuing the space with more joy and coziness than Eliot could dream up for any interior decorating project he ever attempted. 

He knew this place well and not-so-secretly loved it. 

Eliot had been in Q’s room more times than he could count, to talk late into the night with a bottle of wine, to get ready for a party, to study, to randomly hang out without aim. Before that night—before _ Ibiza _—Eliot had walk-in access. He never had to knock. He knew he was always welcome.

But with a sharp hiss of breath, Eliot realized that now he was an intruder. Even as they were closer than they’d ever been, they had really never been further apart. Because god, Quentin looked halfway to fucked, rumpled and gorgeous and _ achingly _ touchable, with his oiled cock still jutting out, red and beautiful. But his eyes were guarded and angry, clouded stones except at the blood-shot edges, spilling over with the smallest hint of vulnerability. 

Of distrust.

So yeah, Eliot kind of felt like he was going to be sick.

But if Quentin picked up on that, it didn’t stop him from pulling him back into a bruising kiss, dragging Eliot on top of him. He was desperate for it... and fuck, Eliot was too. But even as he plunged right back in, unable to help himself, the ripple of conscience roiled ever harder under his skin, hissing and nipping _ Wrong, wrong, wrong, this is wrong, you know this is wrong _ _ , this isn’t how you do this, you moron, _with every frantic press of their lips.

But Quentin’s soft hair was between his fingers and Quentin’s cock was sliding against his stomach and Quentin’s lips were parting for him, pliant and soft and everything he had ever wanted and Eliot just was a mess of _ want _ , the world fuzzing into white noise . So he ignored. He ignored it like he always did, ignored it because he was selfish—fundamentally selfish—so why should this be any different? It wasn’t like Quentin didn’t want it too. They wanted _ each other _and he was fucking sick of noble self-denial. He wasn’t cut out for it.

So Eliot nosed at Quentin’s jaw, palming his hand down his side until he gripped his hip. God, he needed to be inside him. He needed to move in him, fuck him, _ love _ him before the world ended. Because it had to be ending. There couldn’t be anything after this, don’t be absurd. 

Time to go for broke.

—But shit, Quentin had said he wanted to blow him. Which was—fuck. 

Fuck. 

Okay, well, that obviously had to happen. 

It had to, he realized, sinking Quentin into the mattress and kissing him with even more intent. It had to, it had to, _ it had to _. It would be a declaration of war against nature, against every god in the multiverse, not to let that happen.

Fuck.

Shit, but then it only took a fraction of the thought for Eliot to realize that _ he _ needed to blow _ Quentin _ more than he needed to _ breathe _. And he wanted Q to come in his hand. Also, he wanted him to come while riding his cock. Up against a wall, in a shower. Oh, and by his fingers alone, of course. By touching him everywhere, by not touching him at all. Eliot even wanted Q to fuck him, to fill him, stretch him just right. He let out a choked sound just at the thought, hands gripping at the sheets in agony. He wanted all of it, over and over again.

God, he wanted.

Eliot wanted so much, he wanted anything he could get, and he wanted to give Quentin _ everything _—

“_ Q _.” The name tumbled out, broken and anguished. Eliot kissed him, messy and fierce and filled with too much. Too much. His shaking hand held his jaw and he kissed him again, helpless. “Q. Quentin, I—”

_ I love you. _

… Shit.

Well, of course that was what he wanted to say.

It was every breath, every movement, every stutter of his fragile heart. It was a deluge, an undertow ready to take him down. The world would crack open, cities would fall, and all Eliot would think was _ I love you, I love you, I love you _, selfish and cowardly and weak. He was such a moron. He was such a fool. Because nothing had changed.

Abruptly, dread sucker punched him and he gulped down air, trying to abate panic. Despite the screaming tantrum from his hindbrain, Eliot rolled away, off Quentin. Because he couldn’t do it.

He _ shouldn’t _ do it.

Eliot’s chest rose and fell quickly, filling with shallow breaths. Laying flat on his back, he held his hand to his forehead and tried to make sense of the world. Eliot had to be better than his instincts. He had to fucking _ try. _If he owed Quentin nothing else, he at least owed him that.

“I think we need to stop,” Eliot said, quiet into the empty space of the still room. He felt the line of arm muscles tighten beside him. The harsh staccato laugh followed, tearing out of Quentin’s mouth, was like a bullet to the spine.

Eliot forced his eyes to stay open, even though he wanted to shutter them, maybe forever. He wanted to hide. But he had to try. He had to _ try. _Trying to do the right thing was all he had at this point. So he steeled his soul, sat up, and dragged his eyes over, ready to face whatever was coming with clear eyes. 

Not surprisingly, Quentin was also sitting now. But his hands were buried in his hair and his eyes were squeezed tight.

Without anymore preamble, he snarled, “Are you fucking _ serious _right now?”

Eliot felt his mouth fall open in a vain attempt to explain himself. But it was no use. Quentin was _ gone _, and in his place was a furious force of nature, still raw and jumbled and hurting like before. He stormed off his bed, grabbing his clothes. He threw on a random shirt from the floor and slid-jumped into his jeans, leaving the fly unzipped and top unbuttoned as he started to pace around, his tangled hair sticking up in every awkward angle possible.

“So your reputation is just, like, straight up bullshit, huh?” Quentin threw out, an attempted lash. Mediocre effort, in truth. 

But then, as always, it turned inward, with one of Q’s most painful smiles. “Or is it just me? Fuck. Yeah, it’s gotta me. But I didn’t think I was so—I thought you’d at least want to fuck me.”

That one landed. 

Eliot’s eyes closed, like he was offering a prayer to his own self-loathing. He had tried. He really had.

“No, Q. Of course it’s not—“ he sucked another breath, scrubbing his hands down his face. Fuck. _ Fuck. _ “It’s definitely not you, okay?“

But Quentin let out a short sob, wrenching Eliot’s eyes open to stare at him, to see and feel all of it. There were tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck_ fuck _.

“If you don’t want me, that’s—“ Q paused in the middle of his room and swallowed, his red face twitching. “That’s, um, fine. But El, you _ have to _ stop jerking me around.”

Eliot was famously not a good person. He was mean. He always chose the easy quip, the bon mot, the clever irony over the emotionally vulnerable moment, every time.

Every damn time.

So that’s exactly why it should have been no fucking surprise that his brainless response was: “No pun intended, I’m sure.”

The smile spliced his face before he could stop it and Eliot felt his hand wave in the air, _ la-di-da _, as he spoke against his will. It was an out-of-body experience, his defenses engaging without a failsafe. Korean pop music started playing and the world was a disco ball.

But he wasn’t actually a sociopath, so it didn’t take long for horror to pit in his gut. Everything tilted violently as Eliot realized himself, seconds too late. The world moved in slow motion. His words hit Quentin one by one, and an almost fascinating array of emotions clicked through his expressive face.

Anyway, the ice cold anger that settled on his sharp and tense jaw wasn’t a total shock.

“What the fuck?” Quentin’s teeth clacked on the consonant and his hands flew high into the air, like they were hit with a taser. _ “What _did you just say?”

Rightfully, Eliot winced and broke one of his cardinal rules, running a shaky hand through his own hair. “Yeah, no, I’m—that was—“

His balled up shirt smacked his face at the same time Q’s next words did. “What the fucking fuck is wrong with you?”

The most valid question ever posed.

“I’m not good at this, Quentin,” Eliot hissed, one hand still wrecking his hair as he launched off the bed, into a pace. He threw on the shirt and tugged on his pants, definitely not willing to have this particular conversation mostly nude.

“At having meaningless sex with a willing guy?” Quentin lodged his next weapon with surprising skill. “I thought that was your discipline.”

The word _ meaningless _ banged around his skull like a tension headache, far more hurtful than the actual slutshamey jab Qwas going for. Eliot breathed in sharply through his nostrils and focused his hands on buttoning up his shirt, looking at each small piece of mother of pearl like meditation.

He forced himself to stay in the moment, without retreat.

“Okay, you wanna yell at me? Tell me what a fuck up I am?” Eliot threw his hands up in the air, not even caring that half his buttons were in the wrong holes. “Tell me how I’m a shitty friend and a shitty person? Go for it. Not like I don’t already know. So if it’ll make you feel better to get it off your chest—“

Quentin snorted, unmoved. He crossed his arms over his chest and his eyes were too intense as they narrowed in a glare.

“Boo-hoo, poor Eliot,” Q snapped, sounding entirely unlike himself again. He was taking cues from Julia. “It’s him against the world, forever and ever, Amen.”

“Okay, that’s a little arch,” Eliot said, taking his own cue from his own better best friend. His chest squeezed tighter,. “Chill.”

“Chill? Chill? You want me to _ chill? _” Quentin repeated his words like a madman, punctuated with unhinged laughter. “Are you joking?”

Still laughing and twitching, he didn’t know what to do with his hands and all his energy, Quentin stormed over to his nightstand and tossed his hair up into a high bun, grunting manically every step of the say. He looked completely fucking _ ridiculous _and beautiful and why the hell hadn’t Eliot just fucked him, Jesus Christ. 

“I am done chilling,” Quentin snapped, words falling into an eerie flat line “Do you know what you’ve put me through? Do you even care?”

Frustration coiled in his gut and Eliot wanted a cigarette. “Maybe I would know if you would fucking _ talk to me _—“

“Don’t give me that horseshit.”

Eliot blinked and sputtered out a laugh. “It’s not horseshit, Q. We went from—“

“Yes, it is,” Quentin said, face screwed up and fists tightly gripping at his hair. Instinctively, Eliot reached a hand out toward him, but Q flinched away, shooting him a truly devastating and bewildered glare. “Oh my god, don’t _ touch _ me. Read the room.”

“Well, don’t pull your hair,” Eliot said, low. But at Quentin’s deepening glower, he held his hands up and backed away, “Okay. Sorry. Your body, your business.”

“I’m not a child,” Q shot out. Eliot clenched his jaw.

“I know that,” he said, seriously. Then he furrowed his brow, keeping his feet planted, but bowing forward him, just a little. He came in peace. “But—seriously, you really don’t see how this all has been a little out of nowhere?”

“Sure,” Q said with a big, sarcastic nod. “Zero fucking impetus. Definitely.”

Eliot buried a groan in his hands and spun around, shaking his head. “Come on, this isn’t—“

“You say that I should _ just talk to you _. But, I mean, shit, like I didn't try? On the beach?” Quentin cut him off, face falling and voice returning to something familiar, something sad and lost. "I tried, Eliot."

Eliot’s heart ripped apart in his gentle hands and all his words dried up. 

Q sighed and sat down on his bed, hunched. “That’s really—not only is implying that I_ didn’t_ try very shitty of you, you also know you don’t make it easy in the first place.”

There was a long moment of cold and restless silence between them. Wild and broken, Eliot wondered if it would be uncouth to just curl up on Quentin’s bed and breathe in the smell of him until the heavy ache and regret went away, soothed by the gentle feel of his soft blankets all around him.

… Probably.

“We talked on the beach. We reached an understanding,” Eliot said slowly. He tried to remember what happened, if there was anything he did that was particularly egregious. His mind came up blank. “I asked you multiple times if you were—“

“No, you just bulldozed in like you always do,” Quentin said, filling in the blanks without looking at him. He stared at the ground, face pale and jaw quavering. “You didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise until you had totally buried anything meaningful I possibly could have said.”

“Because you were being so forthcoming,” Eliot said, wrapping himself in a shield and looking away, everything too bright. “Excuse me for not being able to parse your monosyllabism.”

He didn’t even have to look at Quentin to know the kicked puppy face was there. He could feel it. He was a piece of shit. All facts.

“I need longer to process,” Q said, monotone and voice bouncing off the floor. “You know that and you took advantage. You lectured me, like I was a dumb kid. I could see the white board and the bullet points. Curriculum entitled, _ Why Quentin’s a Dumbass For Thinking _—“

Eliot swallowed and kept his voice calm. “I thought it would be helpful to go through it in a way that resonated with—“

“Bullshit. You saw the out and you took it. Which is—it’s your prerogative, I know that,” Quentin said, a little helpless. He shook his head and bit his lip, staring upward. “But I’m allowed to react to it. I’m allowed to feel things about it, without us having to be hunky dory best buds in the next goddamn second.”

“Feel things about what?” Eliot’s chest constricted and filled with a painful heat as he whispered. Because it sounded like—

In spite of his erratic state, Quentin’s eyes met his head-on at the question, filled with a dull fire. He let out a shaky breath and shrugged, a small jerk of his shoulders.

“That I wanted a relationship and you didn’t.”

The world stopped spinning and Eliot lurched forward, his knees buckling under him. He caught himself on the edge of Quentin’s dresser, hand sliding against a dragon figurine. It tumbled over against his fingers, pointed edges surprisingly sharp. Everything swayed again and he patted his chest, searching in vain for a flask that he knew wasn’t there.

His heart and his mind screamed at once, battling for superiority in a dissonant cacophony.

In the end, neither won out more than his survival instincts. So even though his hands shook, Eliot placed them behind his back, to hide. All his emotions vortexed in his chest, compacting so tight that no light could pass.

“You never said shit about a relationship,” Eliot said, rougher than he would have liked. But finding any words at all was a victory in and of itself. Quentin didn’t seem to want to celebrate it though.

“Yeah, you’re right, I never _ literally _ said that word,” he snapped, slamming his arms across his chest. Oh, goodie, the sniping derision was back. Lucky Eliot. “Not like tthe most socially aware person I’ve ever met could have picked it up any other way.”

“Not that you’d know,” Eliot retorted, and oops, there that cruelty was, but god, he couldn’t even _ function. _“Being good with people doesn’t mean you’re a mind reader.”

Kicked puppy, lather, rinse, repeat. A goddamn merry-go-round of terrors. 

Meanwhile, Eliot’s bones were rattling loose under his skin as the words _ Relationship, relationship, you didn’t want a relationship _ mocked him from the inside out.

Everything he had ever wanted was right in front of him. Waking up next to Q every morning, taking him to bed every night, loving him every waking hour without pretending it was anything less than what it was. Being his person—and Quentin being his—in the ways that worked for them, uncovered through their joyful discovery of one another. 

It was the fairytale he never acknowledged. It was the fairytale that consumed him. And he wasn’t sure what was worse—the idea that it could never be real or the idea that it could, but he would inevitably fuck it all up, because that was what he did. How could he explain that? How could he say that to Q, without getting anger or—worse—_ pity _thrown back at him? How could he do fucking any of this?

Anyway, Eliot was not at all equipped for this. Not for a single part of the endeavor. 

Obviously.

“Cool,” Quentin finally breathed out, reminding him that, oh, right, they were fighting. They were in the middle of a fight. Q stuck his hands into the pockets of his still open jeans and stared away. “That was, like, really mean for no reason.”

Against his better judgment again, Eliot slammed his hand onto his forehead, patience snapping.“Jesus, no, you don’t get to snark at me _ all night _ and then act wounded when I push back.”

The one sensible voice in his arsenal scolded him, _ Fall to your knees and beg for his forgiveness now, you moron _, but he ignored it. Because since when had Eliot ever done what was good for him or others more than, like, twice in a row, max? He was tapped out.

At the same time, Q scoffed. “Yeah, well, the way you ‘push back’ is fucking _ mean _, Eliot—“

“You just said my magical discipline is _ random fucking _,” Eliot reminded him, brow arching. “So let’s not throw stones at glass, Q.”

Their back and forth broke as Quentin’s face faltered, the reminder of his own words making him flinch like a side sticker. He let out a deep breath and stared at his hands.

“That was—yeah, okay. I’m sorry,” Quentin said, sounding more ashamed than Eliot had meant to illicit. He buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know you didn’t,” Eliot said, leaning harder against the bureau for support. He gestured around, heavy eyes following the airy movement of his hand. “And I didn’t mean—“

“I know,” Quentin said quietly, He raised his head up and pinned Eliot with his most earnest stare. “But—“

He couldn’t breathe. “But what, Q?

Those goddamn eyes softened, swirling with warmth and hurt, more powerful than they had any right to be. Out of his mind, Eliot really did want to fall to his knees, to swear his undying love, to suck his cock until he screamed and the whole conversation was forgotten, to fucking propose or something equally insane, anything to quell the waves of overwhelming longing and guilt.

He was defenseless under those eyes. Always had been. Always would be.

But Quentin mercifully averted them, face drawn in sad and serious lines. Eliot wanted to kiss every one of them away, but he was as frozen as he was weak.

“But can you really look me in the eye and tell me you had no idea how I felt?” Quentin asked, so earnest, twisting his hands in his lap as his soft eyes back gazed up at him. “That you didn’t do everything in your power to stop me from saying it?”

Under the resignation in his eyes was the tiniest spark of hope, the kindling for the inferno that threatened to burn down everything that made Eliot feel safe and everything that made him so fucking miserable in one fell swoop.

But it turned out, Quentin was right. 

Eliot couldn’t look at him. 

His own line of sight shifted fast from the endless warmth of Quentin, ready to swallow him whole, down to the safety of the ground.

From the bed, he heard Q sigh. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. It was answer enough.”

“Maybe I needed some time to process too,” Eliot said, whisper soft. He wasn’t even sure who the confession was really for. He looked down at his bare feet and remembered how much he hated his bare feet. How much he hated even the most insignificant part of himself.

Eliot was still processing. He hadn’t even begun processing. He was so tired. He was standing on quicksand and his heart was the first casualty. There was no way he’d get out of this on solid ground. He knew an inevitability when he saw one.

“So what, now you want to be with me?” Quentin asked, still moving his hands, still looking at Eliot with That Look, the one that murdered him standing every time. “You want us to be together?”

Of course he did. 

He wanted all of it. Eliot was made of nothing but want. He wanted and he took. He wanted and he made it, from nothing. He wanted and he wanted and he forced the world to bend to his whim and will. Fuck the consequences. Fuck the hurt he caused, the pain he sowed. He was Eliot Waugh, hedonist extraordinaire and his pleasure was _ all that fucking mattered _.

Except when it came to Margo. And Q.

God, especially Q.

He made a promise, once. He intended to keep it, shitty of a job as he’d done so far. And from his vantage point, the song remained the same. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. So Eliot pulled himself up to his full height and told the only truth he knew.

“It’s—not that simple, Quentin,” he said, kindly. Lovingly. He hoped. He really hoped Q saw that. That he knew. How the fuck could he not know?

Quentin’s eyes went glassy and he nodded, slow, way too slow. “Um, yeah. Okay, Eliot.”

Eliot’s heart dropped to his feet. He didn’t know. He didn’t understand.

His fault.

“I’m not—you think this is—but you don’t really—“ Eliot started to say, eloquent as ever, but Quentin held his hand up.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I do or don’t want. I’ve known what I want for a long time,” he said, spitting the words out in a too-even monotone. “I’m asking what you want.”

_ You _, Eliot’s soul screamed. But his beautiful facade twisted its lips into a passive smile and let out a shaky breath.

“Q, you are—“ Eliot knelt down in front of him, gingerly placing his hands on his knees. “You _ so _important to me and I—“

Quentin pinched the inner corners of his eyes and shook off a layer of tears, swallowing as he steadfastly stared down at his hands, his perfect hands.

They were shaking.

Eliot hated himself. But he was frozen.

“You know, there are times when I look at you and all I can think is—_ Holy shit, how does this person even exist _ ?” Quentin spoke softly , but his words rang loud. “He’s so—he’s amazing and beautiful and warm and open and smart and clever and _ beautiful _ and fucking everything I’m not, but he still chooses to spend time with me? He chooses me? Like, um, how did I get so lucky, you know?”

Eliot shook his head, even though he knew Q didn’t see it, wasn’t looking at him now. God, he _ loved _ him. He was the lucky one. He was the lucky one. The words tried to force their way out but they were trapped in his throat, caught on all the edges he never managed to shave down . Well, never even really tried to soften, because it would be so _ weak. _

Sometimes he was tired of being strong.

“But other times?” Quentin laughed, a joyless sound. He set his stare into the corner. “God, other times, I don’t know. I just—I don’t fucking know.”

Eliot’s grip on his knees tightened and he whispered, “Q.”

“Do you remember what you said to me—“ Quentin’s eyes flashed up at him, knocking the wind out of him “—the first week week we met?”

He remembered everything.

But Eliot slowly shook his head, giving Q the space he needed. Especially since he wasn’t totally sure where this was going.

“You said that the most important thing to know about you is that you _ don’t care about things _,” Quentin spat the last few words out, swallowing like they left an acid trail in his throat. His eyes never left his. “Remember that?”

Yeah. He did. But he kept his response vague. “Sounds like me.”

“Yeah, you specifically said, uh, _ Things aren’t _ _ really _ _ worth caring about, Little Q. So instead of worrying your pretty head until it spins off, let’s go get fucked up _,” he said, wringing his hands. Eliot forced himself not to flinch, to stay steady as Q got his thoughts out. 

Because there was no chance this was a random stroll down memory lane.

Quentin licked his lips and shivered, closing his eyes, “At the time, I just obsessed over you calling me pretty because I’m, uh—pathetic. But I’ve thought about the whole thing a lot since. Like, a lot.”

That was a lot to process, so Eliot didn’t even bother. He gripped onto Quentin tighter, like he might plummet if he didn’t.

Eliot gently prompted, “What’s your point?”

“That I—I think you’re full of shit,” Quentin said, with another wet and mirthless laugh, eyes still shut. “I think you care about things so much you can’t stand it. But I also think you’re too much of a scared little boy to ever do anything about it or to—to change, and so that’s why I’m done.”

With that, Quentin slowly extracted Eliot’s tense fingers from his knees and he stood, as ominous music started playing everywhere. Or maybe that was just the sound of Eliot’s blood rushing to his ears, whooshing his fate—the promise the world gave him—like a grateful chorus. He slid back to rest against his bare heels, panic rising.

“Quentin,” Eliot said, his voice outside himself. It was unrecognizable—sharp and unsteady and young and scared. He tried to scramble up but he couldn’t. “Q, no. No, sweetheart, please just let me explain—“

“Eliot,” Quentin said, firm but without further inflection. His own name thudded to the ground, dead. “I said I’m done.”

The door creaked open and slammed in one motion, and he was gone.

* * *

Interesting fact about Lord Byron.

Once, during one of his parties, after toasting the denizens with his monk skull cup, as he did, he proceeded to imbibe two bottles’ worth of wine in less than an hour, before running out onto the streets of London, stark raving nude and fully erect, swinging and swining his dick about like the Bacchus he didn’t know existed. In the end, he fucked the first willing person—people—he found, in the depths of a dirty sewer. Mary Shelley found him later, atop a heap of garbage, and bodily carried him home, as he sang sweet hymns into the night. 

Later, he wrote a poem about it, dripping with romanticism. Something about the beauty soaked night or some shit. Boring, sentimental garbage. Besides, it didn’t matter. Eliot didn’t read. He was functionally illiterate, hadn’t you heard? 

Julia loved that joke.

Anyway, that anecdote meant that sitting in a heap on the dirty ground, still barefoot, eyeliner smudged, and frizzy hair in disarray, while chain smoking and nursing a wholeass bottle of scotch? 

Totally part of the aesthetic. 

It was the essence of the aesthetic even. It was the alpha and omega of the aesthetic. His commitment to the aesthetic was unparalleled. He was a star. Watch him shine bright. Sing the fuck out, Louise.

Eliot sucked down another cigarette and threw it on the ground. He’d clean it up later, along with the rest of the nicotine carcasses littered around him. Pulled out another and lit it, brought it to his lips. It helped.

His fly was down.

Anyway, as a full disclosure to no one, that anecdote may not have been so much a “fact” as something he “pulled out his ass” to make himself feel “better.” 

Oops.

It worked. He did feel better. Playful fancies of the mind, always a treat. Eliot was good at that shit. He’d taken an improv class once. Kicked ass, but then his brother told his dad and that was the fucking end of that. Never did improv again, even in college. Wasn’t interested. 

Quentin once said it was probably from PTSD, but Quentin thought everyone had PTSD. Sometimes shit just sucked and that was it, you know? But Quentin wanted to be able to_ fix _ everything, because Quentin was good and kind and—

What was he talking about? 

Shit.

Anyway, the story sounded like something Byron would do, right? Dirty old dog. 

Eliot took another swing of scotch. It wasn’t a swig drink, but he was nothing if not a tastemaker and trendsetter. Right? Right.

Here was a real fact.

Byron died young, fevered, probably drunk, and alone. He was pulled along by nothing but delusions of grandeur, fancying himself a military leader in the Grecian revolution for no reason but his own overinflated sense of self. He was Eliot’s _ hero _.

Another swig. It burned on the way down. Good.

Clunking his head against the brown facade of the Cottage, Eliot closed his eyes and refused to stare up at the stars. He didn’t deserve it. 

But just as he was about to fully marinate in the sweet familiarity of his own invidiousness, he heard the slightly less familiar but no less sweet _ clack-clack-clack _ of shuffling Mary Janes along the brick. Rubbing one eye with the cool bottom of the Lagavulin (Distiller’s Select, the good shit wasted down a drunk gullet) and the other with an ashy knuckle, Eliot sighed. 

With a terse wave, he stared up at Alice’s confused face, tilting back and forth at him like she was studying a particularly intriguing yet distasteful magical paradox. She wore a pink babydoll dress and her hair was pinned at the sides, like she had gotten dressed up without any help. But her bright eyes were concerned, blinking rapidly as she stared at his top form. Her face was paler than usual, he noticed, but the light was dim. So he was probably projecting.

“Eliot, are you—are you alright?” Alice pursed her lips and looked around. He watched her disapproving eyes take in the crushed red solo cups and a million cigarette butts graceless lingering in puddles of spilled booze. “Did we miss the party?”

Despite himself, Eliot laughed a little at that and squinted up at her. “Alice, it’s three in the morning.”

“You told me that I needed to stop showing up at the start time,” she said, lips lifting tightly. Eliot’s heart turned over with a shock of affection. “I was trying to be fashionably late, so I—I spent some time at the library first. Got a little caught up, I guess.”

Her eyes darted away for a second, before cautiously flicking back to him. She did this a few times before Eliot took another hissing sip of scotch and leaned forward, scratching his forehead on his knee. Then he rested his chin there and tried to focus.

Eliot tilted his lips up, soft. “Slight overcorrection, darling.”

Alice offered a tiny little smile in response, along with an even tinier shrug. It was almost shy. It was adorable. She was lovely. But from behind her, a low and scratchy voice chastised him in the darkness.

“Don’t talk down to her.”

Eliot hissed a sharp breath. Then he took another gulp of the liquor, so large that it stretched his throat painfully, almost not sliding down, almost forcing him to cough or vomit. But it burned down his trachea and stung along his ribcage before falling into his stomach, filling the pit. Good.

Kady Orloff-Diaz emerged from the shadows, army jacket rolled to the elbows and raccoon eyes glaring smug down at him over her folded arms. He traced a single finger along the rounded lip of the bottle and smirked, a bitter twist of his lips.

Bad timing, bitch.

“Why, aren’t you _ such _ a good girlfriend?” Eliot drawled, popping his eyes up to match her fire with his effortless cool. “Alice is so lucky.”

Alice’s eyes flickered. “Well, we haven’t actually had a discussion about labels—“

But Kady spoke over her, a hypocrite. She ticked an eyebrow, her eyes twinkling at Eliot with delight. “You look like shit.”

He did. He hoped she enjoyed it while it lasted.

“_ Look upon my works, ye mighty and despair _,” Eliot said, holding his hands out, as he sharpened his tongue. “Better a fallen pharoah than a glorified junkie with a shitty perm. No wonder Penny dropped you like the bad habit you were.”

His ability to find and poke everyone’s most sensitive spot should have been classified as a deadly weapon. Kady’s snarl and snap toward him—any and all pretense of collectedness dropping like a shattered shield—was so instant, it was embarrassing.

Well, for her. He was doing great. Really fucking great.

“At least I have someone,” Kady said tightly, as though her petty insults could touch him. Then she spat on the ground next to him, ever a class act. “At least I don’t follow her around like a stray dog begging for scraps.”

His throat tightened but he forced out a laugh. “Don’t kink shame.”

“Would never, dickhead,” Kady sneered, sticking her tongue out. Then she puckered her lips and narrowed her eyes, a little twitch of a motion. “But I’m pretty sure there’s _ nothing _ kinky happening between you and Quentin, so—”

The world turned red and Eliot didn’t let her finish her boring insult. “Get his name out of your fucking mouth.”

In the background, Alice grabbed onto the top of Kady’s arm with a soft plea, but it went ignored as she stormed closer into Eliot’s space, staring down at him like he was trash.

“You have no ownership. Because guess what? He doesn’t hate me,” Kady said, sharply ticking her head to the side, an obvious challenge. Then she laughed, sour and biting. “If anything, he thinks you’ve been, ah, direct quote, _ ridiculous about the whole thing _.”

Alice blinked back an unknown emotion and grabbed her arm harder. “Kady. Enough.”

Eliot pulled himself up, shaking on his legs, just so he could glower down at her, six-foot-two even in bare feet and regal as fuck even on his worst hour. She could throw her best at him and it would never take him down. She was nothing.

Kady obviously didn’t feel the same way though, her nostrils angling up at him under loathing eyes. His lip twitched into a snarl and their face-off turned cold, a vast tundra of freeze between them, uncrossable.

Except for Alice. 

She ran her hand down the length of Kady’s arm, twisting her slender fingers around the green folds of fabric, a soothing presence.

“You promised you wouldn’t do this,” Alice said gently. “Remember what I told you?”

Kady’s eyes refused to yield from their decimation of Eliot. “He started it.”

Alice frowned, “That doesn’t mean you have to antagonize him.”

“I hate to break it to you, darling,” Eliot said with a tiny quirk of a false small, “but you’re dating The Antagonist. She can’t help it.”

“You think that’s helpful?” Alice flipped around to face him with a scrunched up face. She sounded liked Quentin. 

She sounded far too much like Quentin. 

At once, world came back into dizzying focus, as he remembered everything.

Shit.

He leaned back against the wall, eyes turning glassy. His sight dipped in and out. Shit.

“God, you are that much of a narcissist, aren’t you?” Kady laughed, running her tongue over her teeth. She glared hard, stalking forward out of Alice’s soft hold. “In Eliot’s world, only Eliot gets to fuck up.”

She had some nerve.

“It was more than a fuck up,” he said, low and dangerous. She needed to tread lightly. “You almost _ murdered _him.”

Kady’s eyes faltered for a second, giving her away. But she hardened them again just as quickly. “What, and your hands are clean?”

“My penance, my way,” Eliot said with a shrug, even though he didn’t have to explain shit to her. “What do you have to show for yourself?”

“I don’t answer to you. Not after what you’ve done. You’re nothing,” she said, throwing his own thoughts right back at him, in more ways than one. “You’re no one. You’re not even anyone to Quentin, not really—”

“Do _ not _ say his name.”

“Quentin, Quentin, Quentin, _ Quentin _—”

“You callous fucking—”

“Like you have any goddamn right to tell me—“

“Do you even give a shit about what you did?”

“I didn’t do anything that _ you _ didn’t—“

“Fuck, I really should have—“

“Should have what? Killed me when you had the chance?”

“Your words, honey.”

“Hey, no time like the present. Great way to prove to all of them what you _ really _are, if you even have the—“

“You’re not worth it. You’re not worth anyth—“

As their faces met in a vicious clamor, a flash and crack of lightning cratered a hole in the brick between them. Electric sparks spun out of control, flying in both of their faces and singing their hair. With undignified yelps, both Eliot and Kady jumped backwards, springing apart, panting and thoroughly freaked out.

Between them, the most dangerous person in the world held out crackling hands. Alice’s eyes were narrowed and her pink lips set in a line, clearly ready to blast both of them out of the wards if they so much as moved an inch toward each other again.

“Stop it,” Alice said, guttural and still. “Right now.”

“Shit,” Kady said through hard breaths, hand to her chest. “You could have really hurt us. What the hell?”

Honestly, Eliot highly respected Alice's dramatic choice. Words were cheap. But he nodded in stunned agreement anyway. His heart hammered with adrenaline and his palms tingled because, if anything, _ he _could have reacted badly to that.

“You want the hard truth, from an objective observer?” Alice asked, her big blue eyes shining behind her glasses. She crossed her arms over her chest. “ Both of you fucked up. You both hold shares of the blame.”

Kady’s eyes went crossed for a second and she shook her head violently. “Uh, did you forget the part where he _ drugged _ me?”

True. But he still had the ace in the hole. “She literally almost murdered Quentin.”

Kady snapped her head toward him. “Because you _ drugged _ me.”

“It wasn’t a fucking roofie. If you had just answered the questions—“

“I shouldn’t have been put in that position in the first—“

“If you had nothing to hide, then—“

“Oh my god, that’s what _ fascists _ say, you know that right? Shit, you are—“

“Stop it!” Alice screeched, stomping her foot and holding her electric hands high. She meant business and so they obliged, both more than a little terrified of her. 

Alice took a deep breath and cast her bright and angry eyes between them. “Eliot, drugging someone with truth serum is a serious violation. It absolutely created the circumstances that allowed the incident to happen. You not only owe Kady an apology, you need to get rid of your stash or I’ll tell Fogg about it.”

He laughed. Like he didn’t fucking know. Like he was still just _drowning_ in his least favorite potion now. Jesus. He ashed his cigarette with a hard flick and dug his molars into his tongue.

“Couple steps ahead of you, kiddo,” he said, flat and without looking at her. “Burned that shit the same night.”

Not literally. 

Well, actually, he did try literally. 

Margo stopped him so he didn’t quote-unquote _ explode everything _. In retrospect, it was probably for the best, much as he had wanted a cathartic bonfire. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his eyebrow and briefly looked down at his feet, hoping for a freak sinkhole.

Once again—no luck.

But just as Kady started to widen her dumb face into a smug smile, Alice turned to her with a serious expression.

“And you still almost got an innocent person killed,” Alice said, eyebrows pinching. Kady turned to face her with a scoff, even her eyes wandered frantically. “From what I understand, you didn’t remove yourself. You didn’t give in for even a second, even when Q was standing right next to you and you knew what was happening. You said yourself, part of you _ let it _happen, for the sake of—“

“Look, I warned Quentin,” Kady said, a pitiful argument. Eliot returned it with a scathing huff of smoke.

“Barely,” he said, wishing his voice had more of an edge to it. Something he could hide behind. “There was no way he could have gotten away in time and you knew it.”

Kady’s eye twitched once but otherwise she didn’t acknowledge him, keeping her focus on Alice, who still stood stony faced between them. With a long swallow, Kady set her face into determination, serious and hard.

“Coldwater and I talked about it. I apologized and he accepted, end of story,” she said, flying her hands out into a deep shrug. “He even went to bat for me with Fogg.”

Eliot smoked. He just—

He just smoked, okay?

“Because Quentin has a hero complex,” Alice said, incredulous and also accurate. “He probably pictured himself wearing full chain maille and riding a stunning white horse—“ her eyes closed for a moment, reverent “—just truly _ stunning _, lilac flowers in the braided mane, at least sixteen hands high, and with a gorgeous saddle in detailed silverwork.”

Eliot and Kady exchanged rare, wary glances.

Alice cleared her throat and turned serious once again. “Anyway, he also probably saw himself brandishing a sword and shield as he made his big speech to the dean. There was a big speech, right?”

The details about the horse were weird, but she still made a good point. It even resonated with Kady, who combed a hand through her hair—no wonder her curls were so frizzy all the time—and sighed.

“Yeah, it was pretty speechy. Stammery, but speechy,” Kady said, with a short snort of laughter. It almost sounded genuine. “Fogg told him to chill with the eye contact and that he’s not allowed to use the phrase _ the magic of self-determination _anymore. Like, ever again.”

Something warm in Eliot’s chest twitched and so he drank more scotch to quell it.

“Well, he’s definitely said that since I’ve known him,” Alice said with an eye roll. It was true. “But my point is that just because Quentin thinks it’s fine that you almost broke his entire central nervous system doesn’t mean that it actually is. I know you’re doing the work for yourself, but can’t you understand how his friends feel?”

Kady sucked in her lower lip and popped it back out. “Yeah, except I didn’t hurt them.”

Alice blinked owlishly and then put her hands on her hips, emulating Margo and coming surprisingly to her natural ferocity. Bambi would have cooed in her private pride.

“Not physically. But they love Quentin. They were scared,” Alice said, her sharp and nasal voice wavering with an almost inhuman amount of empathy. “What happened affected people in ways you’ve consistently not been willing to own up to and that’s—disappointing.”

Kady’s body flinched like Alice lodged a bomb, but Eliot couldn’t bring himself to sympathize. Poor baby.

“I didn’t hurt Eliot,” Kady said, stubborn. “I’m not going to apologize to _ him _ because there was collateral damage to _ his _ actions.”

The bottle of scotch exploded.

Tiny pebbles of piercing glass and a streams of amber brown liquid flew in the sky like sparks, hovering over the patio like a dome held in suspended animation. Then it all rained down, a thundering storm, clinking and splashing to the ground in torrent waves. With her catlike reflexes, Alice threw her hands up and shielded the three of them from bodily harm, shooting Eliot a withering glare in the meantime. Kady squatted down and held her arms over her head, breathing hard.

And Eliot just stood there, feeling nothing.

When the deluge finally slowed and stopped, Alice clicked her heels together and pivoted to jut her chin at him, everything eerily calm in its wake.She snapped her teeth and growled at him, low and cold. “If you can’t control yourself—”

“Oh, no, that was controlled and purposeful,” Eliot said in harsh clarification. Then he pointed at Kady, who was standing up again and wiping her jeans, face impassive. “Did you hear what she fucking said? Collateral damage? She’s talking about _ Quentin _.”

Kady took a breath and only looked at Alice. “I didn’t mean it like—”

Finally, Alice’s cold glare was turned on Kady, where it always should have been. “Kady, shut the fuck up. You’re disregarding trauma that you were a major part of, whether you want to face it or not. Maybe that avoidance alleviates your guilt in someway right now, but it should actually add to it, if you had a sympathetic bone in your body.”

“I mean,” Kady bit her tongue and clenched her fists, the last semblance of patience fading, “you weren’t even there, Alice, so this is a little—”

Alice set her jaw away, trembling. “You’re reminding me of Mayakovsky.”

Kady’s eyes widened, staggering backwards. “What? I’m nothing like—”

“He told me that it was a shame that he fucked the wrong student and that he wouldn’t make _ that _ mistake again,” Alice spat out, eyes dark. She swallowed, shaking her a head, a minute motion. “But he believed, ultimately, that my brother made his own choice and therefore, he felt no personal remorse. Do you agree with his logic?”

For a moment, Kady was silent. Then she opened her mouth and a small, breathy sound escaped as she glanced up at the sky, obviously equivocating. Alice’s face turned into the storm she could command.

“Wow. No. Don’t answer that,” she growled. She looked away from Kady again, hugging herself. “I take the question back. I don’t want to know.”

Kady took one step forward, her hand jerking and eyes wet. “Alice—”

“No, your silence said enough,” Alice said, before turning completely away. Then her face turned into a sneer, focused right on Eliot. “And as for you—”

Oh, Jesus. Eliot slumped his spent body against the wall. Thanks for playing, but he wasn’t going to do this now.

“Can we save the guilt and recriminations?” His voice was dry and resigned. He needed more scotch. He hadn’t thought that part through. “You can’t say anything to me about my role in what happened to Quentin that I haven’t already burned into my brain, okay?”

To his surprise, Alice nodded and waved him off.

“I believe that. I do think you know,” she said, before snorting, lips tilting up derisively. “You’ve certainly spiraled enough since I met you to make that clear.”

Eliot took the low bow he earned. Bravissimo.

“Right. So then,” he said, using his lowered stance to pick up his pack of cigarettes and shake it aloft, “back to the toilet flush if you don’t mind.”

Alice cocked her head, like a bird. “Did you know that you were my first friend, Eliot?”

He squinted, thinking. It made sense. She probably hadn’t had time to meet anyone else at Brakebills before him, since she was swept away during her first year. He had never really thought about it in those terms, but it must have been true.

So Eliot said as much. “Well, I was the first person you met, so that makes—”

“No,” Alice said, cutting him off quietly and staring down at her hands. “That’s not what I mean.”

Oh.

Jesus.

Over his suddenly gaping chest, Eliot opened his mouth to respond. No words came though, so he clicked his teeth shut and rubbed the back of his neck, an overwhelming sense of shame resting on him like a strangling cloak. Beside him, Alice laughed, stretching out her fingers like they fascinated her. She wore a slight silver ring on her right hand. It was delicate and lovely.

“I never really learned how to be around people. Charlie was the closest to a positive relationship I had and after he died—well, I became obsessive. It consumed my every thought,” she said, by way of explanation. She voice was tear choked. Oh god. “I went to college and kind of drifted my way through, pushing everyone away who tried to get close to me. Not that many people did. I’m not exactly charming.”

“Fuck anyone who tells you that,” Kady shot out, briefly breaking her pouting in the corner. It was accusatory, as though Eliot was the one who said it. As though Eliot wasn’t endlessly charmed by Alice Quinn, in all the ways no one would have expected, least of all himself.

Ignoring Kady, Alice gave Eliot a watery smile. “I know I’m not as important to you as you are to me.”

He let out a strangled breath, like he was punched in the gut. That probably would have been less of a painful shock. A bullet would have been.

Eliot brought his eyebrows together and shook his head. “Alice—”

“But I thought I at least mattered, somewhat,” Alice continued, chewing on her lip. “That I was more than just your cute little doll, your fun distraction. That was stupid though.”

Shit. “You are more than that. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like you weren’t.”

“I think you believe that. I think you _ want _to believe that,” she said, smiling with her teeth but not her eyes. She sniffed. “But it’s not true. You’re too—preoccupied, for that to be true. It’s okay, I guess, but it doesn’t mean that I—“

Eliot braved a step closer to her, dread circling his heart. He touched her arm. “What are you getting at?”

Alice stood up straight and held her head high, cool and resolved. He always knew her as the passionate inner battle between the sweet darling and the poison rage, ripping each other apart until they finally worked in cohesion. Eliot admired that about her, the way she was neither one nor the other, and so rarely apologized for the dichotomy.

But this? This Alice was more imposing and impressive than anything he’d seen from her yet. Strangely, wildly, he felt the urge to kneel before her, to pledge his fealty.

Long live the queen.

“I’m saying that you—honestly, _ both of you _ have so much... shit to deal with,” she said, a little wry, but mostly pained, “and I’m not convinced that either of you can be a good friend or a good partner until you do.”

Kady shot up, muscles taut and frozen. Her eyes were bloodshot. “Wait. Alice, what the hell are you saying?”

“That I’m taking myself out,” Alice said, dignified. Eliot’s heart sank, but in a way, he understood. “I’ve been through enough in my life and all this is—way too much. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Kady was slightly less understanding.

“Because of him?” Teeth bared, she pointed a razor-sharp black fingernail toward Eliot. She hissed, voice shaking. “I didn’t even want to go to this stupid party, Alice.”

Alice laughed, the regality breaking for a sharp second. “Yes, I know, you made that very clear.” 

But Kady’s eyes widened, hand going to forehead. “But now you’re—?”

“It’s not about Eliot or you, individually, not really,” Alice said, pushing her glasses up and not quite meeting her intense and desperate stare. “But I don’t need to get embroiled in even more mess. I’m sorry.”

“Alice, wait—” Kady rushed at her, trying to take her hands. “Please, let’s just—“

“I’m sorry,” Alice said softly, voice thick and final. Then she looked at both of them in the eyes once, before nodding and turning on her Mary Janes.

She _clack-clack-clack_’d away and Eliot had never respected her more, and he already respected her so goddamn much. But Kady stood where Alice was, slack jawed and hand to her chin, breathing heavily. 

Then she spun around and pushed Eliot back against the wall of the Cottage. 

He let himself fall.

“Thanks a lot, jackass,” Kady said, her voice rough and alien, with a fragility he had never heard. As quickly as her arms launched against him they jumped back onto her hair as she paced in an angry circle.

Of course, Eliot immediately had a scornful retort on his tongue. But as he rubbed at his scratched elbow, the words died at the devastation sketched on her face, staring up at him, so young and so heartbroken. She wore it plainly, that same feeling he lived with and hid under his booze and his clothes and his wit. The raw power of her was shocking and almost humbling. Her vulnerability was real, even in the face of her defenses. He had to give her that. 

If nothing else.

_ Nothing _ else.

And so he said—nothing, except to clear his throat and avert his eyes. It was the least he could do. It was all he would do. Kady huffed out a breath and pushed him again, rocking him back on his heels. Then she sniffed and turned away, stalking off without another glance backwards.

“Stupid. So stupid,” she muttered to herself, hugging her arms and shaking her head as she retreated out of sight. “_ You’re so stupid _. Stupid, stupid, stupid—“

As she disappeared, Eliot’s heart cracked. It was only at its quietest edge, along with an unfamiliar wave of sympathy washing over him like hangover nausea. It was about as pleasant too. The quiet left in their wake only served to highlight the absurdity, the _ drama _ he once lived for, and the relentless ache of his dull and thumping heart.

What a fucking night.

His head hurt. The ground was cold under his feet. The shattered glass was still everywhere and his fingers itched to lift the pieces, to discard them, to make the world a bit more orderly. Not mend it. There was nothing worth mending. But he could clear away. He could clean up the mess he made and he wanted to. But his discipline—his _ gift _, as Fogg insisted on calling it—didn’t fit the mold in so many ways. Sure, he could kill children with buses, but the easiest way to use his power in the day to day was to make things neater, make them more precise, more efficient.

Except Eliot was none of those things.

He was a wreck and he was verbose and he always took the long way, the laziest and most conniving coward’s path. Anything else was for people better than him, people who knew what the hell they were doing at any given time.People stronger than him. People who actually made the world something worthwhile. People who made the world better and brighter, through their sincere effort.

People like Quentin and Margo, the two strongest and bravest and brightest people he knew. And Alice—sweet, wise, _ brilliant _ Alice—who had never asked for any of this bullshit. Yet she saw something in Eliot that first day, something that made her stick around, much as she regretted it now. The three of them tried, so hard, all the time. He was so unworthy of them.

God, what bravery it took to look at a mess and say, _ I can make this better, no matter how small the effect. I can help. I will help. _ What bravery, when it was so much easier to let things be and let them lie, forever unchanged. To not give a shit; to give up and stand down. It was what he had always done, once he left Indiana. He had blown his load early on and never looked back, telling himself that he deserved the repose, that there was nothing more he ever needed to do. Nothing else he ever had to live up to.

Eliot took a deep breath and stared at the stars, beautiful and fading into the cloudy night. Then he left the broken glass as it was, for now, but walked back into the house.

It was time to clean up.

* * *

When Eliot knocked on the door, he knew he may get no answer. He knew he may even be unwelcome, at the ungodly hour and with all the shit that had gone down. But his skin was on fire, electric and charged, and there was no way he could wait until the morning to do this. If he was going to do it, he had to do it now.

He’d lose his nerve otherwise.

His knuckles stung after he knocked again, rapid and anxious. He lowered his hand and swallowed, his fingers sliding against each other as he bounced on his feet, waiting. The roof of his mouth was heavy, like it was about to shutter over his shallow breaths. He wasn’t sure if he was hoping the door would open or not. He flipped back and forth, _ yesnoyesnoyesplease _. 

When the thin line near the ground turned from black to a soft glow of yellow, his brain screamed, telling him to get the fuck away. But his heart whispered out an anchor, rooting him to the spot. After a few moments of soft shuffling, the doorknob turned and Eliot straightened up. 

His pulse raced as the light spilled out into the hallway and the sleepy face that greeted him squinted up in confusion. His words rushed out, not allowing for even a hair of a chance that he’d back out, that he’d be a coward again. Eliot held his hands along the open door frame and leaned in, desperate.

“I’m sorry. I’m—fuck, I’m so sorry. You were right,” he choked out, for once not fighting the tears forming under his lashes. “You were right, about everything. I know I didn’t react well and I know I said all the wrong shit, at every turn, but I’m saying now that _ you were righ _t.”

Eliot was met with silence, a fair response, He sighed, eyes closing. “I’ve been such an idiot. I know I needed to hear it. I needed to hear everything you said to me, hard as it was. I know that I’ve made shitty decisions and said shitty things, and hurt you and everyone else because I couldn’t—I wouldn’t—”

He licked his lips. Why was this so fucking hard? It shouldn’t be this fucking hard. Christ, he was the defective one.

Mournful and ashamed, he ripped the rest of the words out with his soul. “But I—I promise I’m here now, baby. Because you were _ right _.”

His arms fell to his sides and he let out a strangled breath, out of steam. 

That was all he had. 

He just hoped it would be enough. His heart was outside his body, beseeching and imploring. And fuck, _ hoping _, even though he knew hope was a fool’s exercise. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t forget how to hope, no matter how hard he tried.

From the other side of the door, a perfect eyebrow arched.

“No shit I was right,” Bambi said with yawn. She stretched her svelte, tiny arms up high, then let her elbows fall around the crown of her head. She cocked one eye up at him over a frown. “But remind me what the fuck you’re talking about? How high are you?”

Eliot would never fall out of love with Margo Hanson so long as he lived.

“I’m not high,” he said, slumping against the open door and sniffing. “This is sincerity. I’m being sincere.”

All the color drained from her face and her eyes went unnaturally wide. “Oh, _ fuck. _”

He laughed a little, rueful, and rolled his eyes at himself before taking another deep breath and pinning her with his most serious gaze.

“Is Julia here?” He kept his voice soft. No need to waken sleeping dragons. Thank god, Margo shook her head.

“No, I was at her place, but ended up leaving because—” she stretched again, arms straight out in front of her. But then she paused, like something hit her. Her big eyes went from sleepy to way too understanding.

Margo pursed her lips and crossed her arms, hip jutted out. “Because Q showed up all weepy, again, and I was unceremoniously booted from her bed. _ Again. _”

As much sympathy as Eliot usually felt for Margo getting pussyblocked, his brain was too busy shorting out over the image of a crying Quentin. A relentless pounding of _Your fault, your fault, your fault _filled his mouth along with a deluge of thick saliva, the kind that proceeded puking your guts out.

He stared down at the ground, jaw trembling. “So you know then.”

But Margo just snorted.

“I don’t know shit. See, her best friend actually fucking talks to her,” she said with a playful poke at his elbow. He smiled as much as he could and she sighed, sobering. “But I have noticed Quentin’s been kind of a needy asshole with her lately.”

“Yeah, ah,” Eliot cleared his throat and took a shaky breath. “Yeah. I might have had something to do with that.”

“_ No _,” Margo said, eyes cloying wide and lips dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t say.”

His jaw tensed and he snapped, “Can we not? With the bullshit? For once?”

Hypocrisy, thy name was Eliot Waugh.

He really was a dick. He sighed and knowingly met her cool stare, the unamused downturn of her lips. She scoffed, running a hand through her bed head.

“That’s up to you, honey. You wanna talk, my door’s open,” she said in her brassiest, baddest bitch voice. “But I’m not holding your hand. You gotta get there on your own.”

She set her jaw forward and put her hands on her hips, obviously expecting a challenge back. He couldn’t blame her. He’d never given her reason to expect anything less. Well, anything _ more. _

But hey, at least Eliot could still surprise her.

He crumpled.

Eliot hugged his arms around his torso and shook his head, short and fast. He couldn’t look at her, but he felt Margo shift closer, felt the shock radiate off her.

“But, like—” he swallowed, eyes darting. His voice was driven gravel. “Could you? Please?”

Her heard her tiny gasp, the growing uncertainty in her voice. “Could I—what?”

Eliot closed his eyes again, eyelids stinging. “Hold my hand. I’m—I’m not—things aren’t—I’m not—”

A cool hand cupped his chin and he melted. Even more so when her rarest, gentlest voice came out. “Sweetie, what happened?”

“You saw,” Eliot said with a sniff. He braved a glance at her and she frowned.

“What, Quentin’s little hissy fit?” Margo sighed and shook her head. “You know that happens.”

It didn’t. Not really. Not the way she thought. Sure, Quentin got pouty and stompy, would snap over something stupid, like whether someone ate his goddamn strawberry pop-tarts when really, he misplaced them. But what had happened that night was uncharted territory. Margo just wasn’t an expert.

For better or worse, Eliot was.

He couldn’t find the strength to say all that quite yet though, and he blurted out the first mangled garbage that came to mind. “The ropes fell when I said I destroy everything I touch.”

Bambi’s nose turned up. “Huh?”

God love her bluntness. He almost laughed, but he knew he would end up curled on the floor sobbing if he took too shallow a breath and, well, he didn’t want to totally kill her boner for him. So instead, Eliot forced himself to speak, as dignified as he could manage. It wasn’t his best performance, but considering the obstructions he was under, it should have ranked higher than it seemed.

“During The Trials. It wasn’t—it wasn’t about Indiana,” Eliot said, filling his lungs, in and out. He could smell her magnolia shampoo and it settled his stomach, still nauseated. “It was about me. I destroy everything I touch.”

Without any lead up, Bambi reached out and wrapped her arms around his waist, pressing her tiny head to his chest. She could certainly hear his erratic heart and she hummed, running her hands up and down his back.

“It’s almost four in the morning, sweetie. I’m still kind of buzzed,” she said into his shirt, before tilting her face up at him, chin to his collarbone, and smiling, soft and sad. “You need to be clearer for me.“

Eliot nosed at the top of her head, tangling his hand in the soft strands of her hair. Breathing her in and surrounding himself with nothing but Margo, he let the words he needed to say flow.

“I almost got him killed, and now I was trying so hard not to lose him that I think I lost him,” he said, throat tight. Margo blinked up at him in confusion and he shrugged, a tiny little motion. “Um, Q and I fought. It was bad. He said he’s done with me.”

“I’ll fuckin’ believe that when I see it,” Margo interjected. But he shook his head, silently begging her not to speak. For once in her life, she gave in.

“Alice doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore, can’t fucking blame her.” His mouth was filled with her hair and his tongue was dry. “Julia thinks I’m a piece of shit. And you and I are—who the fuck are we anymore? You’re here, but you’re not. And I’m here, but I’m _ not _.”

Margo’s hands gripped him tighter and he felt her own breathing come less steady. She sniffed once and buried her face into him, like she was hiding. He was overwhelmed with longing for her, even as she held him. He kissed the top of her head, a messy brush of his lips.

“I destroy everything I touch,” he said, whispering. “Everything, Bambi.”

She stayed still in his arms for one moment longer. Then she pushed back, keeping her hands on his chest as she blinked her glassy eyes into focus. She swallowed heavily, brushing a piece of lint off his shirt and fixing his askew collar, dark brows pinched in concentration. His cracked armor unraveled further under her sweet attention and in the way she was obviously trying to hold herself together.

Finally, she looked back up at him and patted his cheek once, a bright gesture in a black night. She smiled, cool and no nonsense, and his chest warmed with an almost unbearable fondness for her.

“Come on in,” Margo said, with her usual casual and competent air. She looked him up and down, then nodded like she had deemed him worthy. “We’re gonna figure this shit out, okay?”

She spun on her heels, hair flying behind her in a perfect spin. Her hips moved in their natural figure eight, ready strut into problem solving mode, always in heels even when barefoot. But before he could follow her in and flop down face first on her big bed like the dramatic bitch he was, Margo sighed, fully annoyed. Then she thrust her arm back impatiently, stretching her fingers wide, in and out, traffic signaling.

With a small smile to the ground and not daring to breathe a word...

Eliot took her hand.

* * *

Eliot never called Margo _ Bambi _ until he saw her room in the Cottage.

They had been friends since the exam day, bound together as the only two people on campus who knew how to moisturize, party, and talk down to the peons without missing a beat. They spent hours lamenting the shitty, _ dreary _cinder block dorm rooms and the lack of available space to define themselves, through the visual mediums they were both drawn to. 

It had bonded them, the time sitting in the quad and drinking champagne, giggling days into fucked up nights. There was an innocence about that time, a superficiality that every now and then—Eliot missed. But it was still better once they really _knew_ each other. He knew that, even if it took occasional reminders to his worst self.

Anyway, once they’d finally settled into the Physical Kids realm (something both of them could have told Brakebills from day one, but that was neither here nor there), Eliot had been so excited to see her room in all its glory. He thrilled in anticipation at the inevitable vampy glamour that was sure to adorn the living space of Queen Margo Hanson, all draping reds and Irving Klaw prints. She was the midnight black to his royal purple, the cutthroat to his cool.

But instead, the first time he walked in as she announced the grand reveal, Eliot laughed out loud. It had been a sparkling sound and more out of surprise than humor. Because Margo’s room was, well…

It was _ cute. _

She had a mauve comforter, with several throw pillows—one of which actually read LOVE (?!) in block letters—all gently lit from a novelty lampshade, printed with New York City scenes, including the goddamn _ Statue of Liberty _ . Even more shocking, there were pictures _ everywhere _, all of her and even more of Eliot, in sweet frames of varying colors. She had a pastel blue Polaroid, waiting to capture even more precious moments beside her crowded vanity. There was nothing sleek, nothing dangerous, nothing even sexy about her room. It was like a gentle hug from a teenage girl, one who had just learned even the slightest thing about interior decorating.

Seriously, she had floral curtains. _Floral_. Floral_._ _Margo_.

It was the most adorable thing Eliot had ever seen. And that remained true, even when he received an angry smack to the arm when he said as much.

“It has to be an inviting space, so that my fuck friends let their guards down,” Margo said by way of explanation, but her cheeks were darker than before. “It’s an artistic decision, you condescending dick.”

He was condescending. He also wasn’t wrong. It was a peak at the smallest, sweetest part of her heart, and he was going to relish every second of it.

“Okay, Bambi,” Eliot had said softly, pushing a strand of her silky hair behind her ear. She glared, red lips puckering.

“Bambi was a boy, you dummy,” she said, only slightly defensive. She had been younger then, in all ways.

To disarm her, Eliot had smiled, clicking his tongue and flopping down on her bed like he owned it. He reached one long arm out and pulled her into his chest, curling around her like a large cat.

“Exactly,” he cooed, kissing her forehead. “It’s like you said. Mixing up expectations. That’s the definition of my Bambi.”

At that, Margo had snorted, a soft and disbelieving sound and she melted into him for barely half a moment. Then she rubbed her chin along his silk vest, thoughtful and affectionate, before turning her face up at him with a wicked grin.

“You’re so full of shit,” she accused, gleeful. She kicked at his ankle and he chuckled, low and acquiescing, into the crook of her neck. He had been _totally_ full of shit. But she loved him for it, it seemed. And thus, he had loved her too, slowly but surely until it was far, far too late to go back.

It was one of his favorite memories.

But in the present, their roles were reversed. Margo was the one curled around him and his ear was pressed to her ever steady heartbeat. Her fingers delicately spun his curls, murmuring the spells to put them back in place. They were the ones he had taught her. They were tiny little love letters, each of them.

“Okay,” Margo said quietly, after they had relaxed for a few sleepy moments. “Start from the beginning for me. I’m assuming Encanto Oculto is where we lay our scene?”

Of course she knew more than she was letting on. 

Eliot felt her tiny chest rise and fall under his cheek and he let his own breath match her rhythm. It was the only way he would get through this—following her lead.

“Did Julia tell you?” If Julia had actually given Margo any amount of information, it was important to know. He was pretty sure by now that Julia knew everything or nearly everything. If she was passing her interpretation on, he would probably have to correct the record a few times. 

Julia’s take would probably be—uncharitable.

Not that he deserved charity, but Eliot wasn’t a mustache twirling villain either. He had fucked up, but he had done his best with what he had. He knew Margo would understand that, more than anyone, but—

But.

He still worried.

It didn’t matter though, because Margo “I Don’t Like To Repeat Myself” Hanson gave his arm a gentle punch from above. A mostly gentle punch. Gentle for her.

“Once again, that bitch hasn’t told me anything,” she said, before sticking her tongue out. “She says _ It’s private between Quentin and me, part of our sacred fucking bond, blah blah blah _.” 

Her impression of Julia’s low pitched vocal fry was really good. 

Eliot looked up at her and grinned in appreciation. Margo winked.

Then she made an annoyed sound from her throat, digging her fingernails deeper into his scalp. “Which, like, why even be in a relationship if you don’t get each other’s gossip?”

Eliot smirked, still feeling inappropriately twinkly. “_Oh_, and it’s good gossip too.”

Objective fact.

Margo lodged a sour and kittenish glare at him. He smiled, biting the air up at her and she scrunched her nose down at him, teasing. For a flash, he forgot the world. But then she sighed again, tilting her head, back to business.

“It’s not that big of an island, El. I saw you two,” she said, sending his stomach plummeting. “I’m just tactful as shit so I never mentioned it.”

She didn’t say anything more, playing with his hair. His heart pounded and he decided not to make any assumptions.

“What—exactly did you see?” Eliot asked, slow and methodical.

Margo paused her movements in his hair, hand stilling dangerously. He turned away from her again, not able to bear the look on her face. A good call, because it wasn’t long before he heard her tiny and foreboding chuckle, the sharp suck of her lower lip between her teeth.

“You two dancing up on each other like the world was going to end,” she said, slow and methodical right back. Then Margo pushed him off her and crossed her arms, looming over him. “Was there something else I could have seen?”

Eliot sat up and slumped over on his torso, like a rag doll. He pushed his eyes into his palms, somehow having forgotten that talking involved—_ talking _. Ugh. “There might have been—ah. Well. It was all very high school.”

“Eliot.”

He spoke as quickly as he could, ripping the bandaid. “We made out and fell asleep on the beach together.”

Margo shoved him and he fell over on his side. “_ Eliot. _”

“It was nothing,” he lied and he knew that she knew it was a lie. She pinched his arm to prove it and he winced, since she always aimed for actual pain, not just a point. “Fine, it wasn’t nothing. But it was—we were both really fucked up. I mean, Quentin even overdosed on goddamn pills—”

“What the motherfucking shit?” Bambi’s eyes went wide and terrified, and _ oh _, right. That had different connotations sometimes. Always. “What the fuck? You didn’t tell us?”

He shook his head and took her hands, squeezing them tight. “No, sorry, fuck. I meant he took, like, _ three _ of those dancing pills. You know, those ones Maurice is always hocking?”

“That still could have been bad,” Margo said, crossing her arms. “Is he fucking stupid?” 

“I mean, you’ve met him,” Eliot said in lieu of a more precise answer. He closed his eyes. “His legs did give out, but he was fine. Slept it off.”

Margo deflated, head falling down. She swallowed audibly and squeezed his hands back once, before putting them to her chest.

“Jesus,” she said, calming. “Give me a fucking heart attack, why don’t you? That went from deliciously idiotic to _ fucked up _, you dick.”

“Sorry,” Eliot said again, closing his eyes. “I was just trying to say that it wasn’t—it wasn’t like we were in the right place to—you know. It wasn’t—it was just a dumb hook up.”

Margo’s hand pet his cheek and he heard her sigh again. “What, you’re trying to say it didn’t mean anything? Come on.”

Eliot laughed, wet and cracking open. He stared up at her ceiling, energy draining with every word he spoke. “What happens in Ibiza stays in Ibiza, right?”

Wrong. It had decidedly not stayed in Ibiza. He knew that. And he knew she knew that. So a small but strong hand yanked his chin down and fierce brown eyes met his.

“That’s for, like, when we do bath salts and then ride the bull and the matador at the same time,” Bambi spat out, not letting him move from her grasp. “Not for tender moonlit kisses and waking up in our best friend’s arms as the sun rises over the hazy horizon.”

Eliot glared, couldn’t help it. “Editorializing, are we?”

“If it was you and Quentin, it had to have been tender as shit, dickhead,” she said, smacking his leg. She spoke her words slowly, patronizingly. “You two are _ in love _with each other.”

The words rang loud in his ears and cloaked Margo’s adorable room in a heavy perfume, invading every pore. His usual instincts bubbled to the surface, the ones that brushed off or joked. But for the first time, he took a deep breath and thought the most impossible thought. Which was…

Yeah. Maybe. 

_ Maybe _ _ . _

But nothing had changed. 

Eliot was still Eliot. He had proven that tenfold, hadn’t he? Had he done anything that made being with Quentin something he was worthy of, something that didn’t belong in the realm of fever dreams and fever dreams alone? Anything that proved him to be anything more than a weak coward? Anything that didn’t foretell _ anything _ but disaster and heartache?

The questions were rhetorical, but only because the answer was so goddamn obvious.

“Not that simple,” he said, lacing his fingers together on his lap. He stared down at them, everything else too much like the sun. His retinas were scalded forever, just from the night alone. He needed to breathe and take his time.

But Margo waited for no man.

“Lay the complexity on me then,” she said, a clear challenge. She leaned back against her headboard with her arms crossed and eyebrow arched. “Sleep’s not happening tonight, so I’ve got some fuckin’ time.”

Eliot groaned and wrapped his arms around his head, fully blocking his eyes. This was going to be the worst. But he knew better than to resist and so he started talking, without much regard for sense.

“First of all, I’m the guy you sleep with on your tropical vacation because you think I’m—“ _ You’re so gorgeous, El _ “—um, hot or whatever. But I’m not the guy you’re actually with in the light of day. So there was already that working against us.”

He heard Margo shift and hum, as though in thought. Then she patted him on the head, bright and sharp. “Yeah. You’re right.”

Okay, ouch.

“Okay, ouch,” Eliot said, lowering his arms and shot a scathing look at her. True or not, best friends weren’t supposed to agree with shit like that. What a bitch.

In response, Margo twisted her shoulder in front of her coquettishly and let out a melodic purr, fluttering her eyelashes and pouting her lower lip.

“What can I say?” Bambi let the words drip from her lips, saccharine and ready to destroy. “You’re talking about the infamous Fuck-‘Em-and-Chuck-’Em Coldwater. It’s how it goes.”

“You don’t get it,” Eliot snapped. Margo shrugged.

“No, I do,” she said, rubbing circles on his back and dropping a kiss on his cheek. “I get it because I know you’re making shitty excuses. Try again with a little feeling this time, sweetcakes.”

Eliot felt an intense rush of bittersweet appreciation for her. On the one hand, she always met him where he was. He had literally knocked down her door, almost sobbing about the Kady—incident and how he always destroyed everything meaningful and even how he felt he had lost her, his Margo, his _ Bambi _. He was a mess.

Yet she didn’t push him, fulfilling her threat and promise.

She let them volley bullshit back and forth, buoyant and light and dazzling. He was Gene Kelly, tap dancing through the acid rain, and she, his muse. She was his enablement and his salvation, all wrapped in one. He loved her, but he knew that this—just like all the ones he had already botched with Q—was a moment that truly mattered. He could brush it off and focus on the superficial shit, and she’d let him. Or he could be real, and she would welcome him. But it was up to him and no one else. This was where she wouldn’t hold his hand. Couldn’t, maybe.

“He’s my best friend, Margo,” Eliot said, throat strained and aching. The words trembled out. “Both of you are my only—you know I don’t have any family. I’ve already fucked up enough.”

Bambi rested her cheek on her shoulder, eyebrows furrowing. “Fucked up, how?”

She asked but she knew. He knew she knew. So he twisted his moonstone ring and stretched out a false smile, anything to shield.

“I drugged Kady, just to be a dick,” Eliot said softly. They’d had this conversation before, but not sober. “He almost died, because of me.”

“I’m still not sure how you figure that,” Margo said with narrowed eyes. “I’m missing a few steps there.”

“Come on,” he shot out, done with her revisionist bullshit. “The sequence of events was clear. The impetus was clear. If Kady hadn’t fought the truth serum—”

“You have no idea what would have gone down,” Bambi said, laying her hand over his. She stared at him with all the love and ferocity in her heart, both considerable. “That’s the truth, El. For all we know, Kady could have freaked out about something else and the same shit would have happened. Or, fuck, she could have taken Q hostage, she might have—”

Eliot snorted and rubbed his ring against his lip, hiding a smile. “That’s a reach.”

“I’m saying that we don’t know, you dick,” she clarified, smacking his hand down. “We’ll never know. Was the truth serum a good idea? Probably fuckin’ not. But she made choices too. So did Q, frankly.”

His heart lurched angrily into his throat and he looked away from her. “_ Don’t. _”

Margo took a deep breath and in his peripheral, he saw her resigned lips press down into each other. She took his hand and stroked his callouses under her thumb, the ones that had never gone away.

“If you aren’t letting yourself be with Q because of what happened in April?” Margo spoke as cautiously as he had ever heard, each word precise and slow. “You’re not only punishing yourself, honey. That boy _ loves _ you, Eliot. The way you see what happened, the way you see yourself is not—”

Nope. He wasn’t ready for that. 

He grabbed his hand and withdrew, crossing his arms over his chest and huffing out breaths, telegraphing for all the world and Margo that he was not going there. Not yet. 

Maybe not ever.

Fortunately, Bambi picked up what he was putting down almost immediately. Unfortunately, she obviously judged the shit out of him for it, with a tetchy shake of her head and eye roll.

“Fine, you big baby. Let’s stick to the timeline then,” she said, like it was a huge and painful concession. She flopped back against her love pillow and stared up at her ceiling. “So after your sexy rendezvous on the beach, you guys, what, just acted like it never happened and that’s what blew up in your face?”

Eliot sucked his lower lip between his teeth and cleared his throat. He squinted, embarrassed. “Well, uh—”

If she hadn’t been lying on a bed, Margo would have stomped her foot. “Goddammit.”

“It was only two other times,” Eliot argued, rationally. It didn’t help.

“Fucking Christ, El,” Bambi said, kicking his knee with serious force. She was terrible at only using her words. He knew that, but had never been quite so subjected to her physical reactions in such fast succession. 2/10, wouldn’t revisit the establishment.

“It’s not like we slept together,” Eliot said, slumping to the side and peering up at her, imploring her understanding. “We just—made out a lot. And, like, maybe half a handie, if that.”

But Margo’s eyes just widened, horrified. “That’s so much _ weirder _.”

Yeah.

“I know,” he sighed, rolling onto his belly and burying his face in her comforter.

“If you want the dick, get the dick,” she said, passionate and true. “But that cockfooting bullshit?”

“Cockfooting?” Eliot lifted his head to frown up at her. “Yeah, that’s not your strongest.”

She flicked the side of his head with a her index finger. “Don’t try to piss me off to change the subject. You are goddamn _ better _ than—“

“I _ know _, Margo,” Eliot said, voice muffled by the down again. He wanted to sink into it and never return. “But if I actually fucked him, things would be worse.”

“Can’t imagine how,” she countered, fairly. “At least you would have gotten your rocks off and not been a fucking middle schooler about it.”

“The average middle schooler gets more action than I did,” Eliot said mournfully, flipping over. He scratched his hand along his stomach. “But it was the right call. You just have to trust me on that.”

“Then you should have kept your hands to yourself.”

He laughed, the sound ricocheting off the ceiling and filling her whole room.

“Quentin wanted me. He made it _ clear _ that he wanted me, three times,” he said, shooting his eyes over to her, all serious. “I should get several Presidential Medals of Honor for keeping it in my pants as much as I did.”

“Yeah, you’re definitely up there with war heroes,” Bambi said, rolling her eyes and lying down next to him. They were facing each other in the fetal position, knees slotted together. “So, okay, tell me about the Alice shit then.”

“Not much to tell,” Eliot admitted truthfully. “She kinda got caught up in my bullshit. But she was too smart and _ realized _ she got caught up in my bullshit, ran for the hills. But it sucks because along the way, I shocked and horrified myself by actually—”

“Growing to care about her. A lot,” she finished for him, with a soft and sad smile. At his slow nod, she groaned and closed her eyes. “Yeah, I know the feeling.”

Eliot blinked and his brow crumpled. “You care about Alice?”

“Um, I mean, she’s fine?” Margo laughed, before rocking her head back with a deep sigh. “No, I was actually referring to your boy.”

He was going to get premature wrinkles from how hard his brow was crumpling. “Wait, Quentin?”

“Yeah,” Bambi breathed out, shaking her head like she was ashamed. “He’s a sneaky bastard.”

That didn’t make sense. “You’ve always cared about Quentin.”

“I mean, yeah,” Margo said, eyes flashing. “He’s my stupid little brother and if anyone ever breathed on him wrong again, I’d gouge out their eyes with a dull nail file.”

Eliot’s heart bloomed. “Sure.”

“But come on, do you really think that was automatic?” Margo jostled her knee against his, shaking his whole leg. “That I was naturally drawn to _ Quentin _? Of all people?”

“You come on,” Eliot countered, slightly indignant. “You two have more in common than he and I do. You have Fillory and Buffy and—”

“I let myself care about Quentin because of you,” Margo said emphatically. She glanced away, the reveal too much. “Because of Julia too, to an extent. But that was back when I thought she was a flavor of the month, at best. I really made an effort with him because I saw how you were around him from _ day one _.”

His stomach cratered in. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“It’s not,” Margo said, scrunching one cheek up to her eye and laughing. “Can’t fool me, honey. You were Lady Gaga-pants about him from the first time you saw him.”

She wasn’t wrong. She was never wrong. He quirked his lips up into a faint smile and rubbed a hand down his face. 

Talking was exhausting.

Luckily, because misery loved company, it seemed to be draining Margo too. She flipped onto her back, back of her hand plastered on her forehead. But she kept her knee looped around his and tugged him in, so he was hugging her.

They were like a much hotter John and Yoko.

“So I thought, well, either this kid will take Eliot away from me forever,” Bambi said, voice wavering despite herself. Eliot would rather die than comment on it. “Or I decide now to stake my claim and stake it smart. So I made myself important in his eyes too.”

He stroked his thumb across her elbow. “You know Quentin adores you.”

She huffed out a breath and almost choked on it. She buried her face in his hair, and he would have rather died and _ gone to hell _than comment on the wetness he felt along his scalp.

“That was actually the fuckin’ rub. He ended up being the least possessive person I’ve ever met,” Bambi grumbled, still fucking pissed about it. “He always wants everyone to have everything, wholeheartedly. It’s disconcerting as fuck.”

Eliot sighed, understanding her frustration. “He has that effect, yeah.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said, popping up to meet his eyes, all fury, “he’s also a shit-for-brains who cries too much.”

“Obviously,” he said, gently. He cupped her cheek with his hand and she leaned into his touch, a quick grounding. She closed her eyes and her eyelashes tremored, emotions shaking under her hiding place.

“But honestly, for awhile,” Margo said quietly, almost like a confession, “it kinda made me hate him for how much I ended up—loving him, even independently of you.”

“Bambi,” Eliot said, a gentle imploring. She kissed his palm once and looked up at him, a stark clarity in those doe eyes.

“I had Julia to process that all with though. You didn’t have anyone, not really,” she said, each word thudding against his stomach like blank bullets from a gun. Painful, if not lethal. “I’m sorry for that. That I couldn’t be that person for you, because of all our shit.”

He clenched his jaw and bit his lip, almost to bleeding. Dry flakes of skin flapped against his tongue and he had a sudden urge to ask for her sugar lip exfoliant, the kind that tasted like watermelon.

But that was a deflection.

No kidding.

Eliot was still a piece of shit though. So he couldn’t help the bitter bile in his throat as he spat out, “So which self-help books did Julia recommend then?”

Instantly, Margo’s eyes slit and her nostrils flared. “El.”

Cuddle time was over, folks.

He rolled onto his back and sat up, leaning his forehead against his palms. Then he burst them outward, laughing. It was hysterical. Angry. Probably petty as fuck. It was what it was.

“What do you want me to say?” Eliot demanded, glaring over at her.

“You said you loved her if I loved her,” Margo said, still lying in repose. Her voice was carefully calm. “I’ve yet to see that in action, asshole. You haven’t even _ tried. _”

Eliot sniffed his nose in the air and sneered, haughty. “Technically, I think the word we used was—”

“Don’t be a shithead,” Margo said, shooting up and leveling the whole damn earth under the fire of her gaze. For a suicidal moment, he opened his mouth to retort, but it died at the shaking hint of her vulnerability, glinting like broken glass at the edge of her expression.

So he clicked his teeth shut and rubbed his eyes, white squiggles and bursting blood painting the blackness.

“Julia and I have nothing in common,” Eliot said, lightly. 

Another Margo smack didn’t surprise him. But he still set his jaw at her and opened his eyes, menacing and annoyed. She cocked an eyebrow and snorted, openly laughing at him. She was only person in the world who could do that and live to tell the tale.

“Sure, except both of you love the same two people with your whole fucking hearts,” Bambi hissed, hugging herself. She looked down then. “But that obviously doesn’t mean shit to you.”

The pang of remorse hit right in the solar plexus and took his breath away. He fussed with his rings, brain whirring and gut churning.

“Look, it’s not personal,” Eliot said, aiming for nonchalant. His voice was too tinny for that though. “It’s more that I can’t get over how she’s just not always—good for Q.”

It was true. It really was part of the issue. And it was something he could speak to, at least, more than his petty jealousy and resentment.

Margo sighed and pressed her thumb against her temple, calling patience. “What the hell does that mean?”

“She puts him in a box,” Eliot said, irritable, imagining her dumb singsong voices and too-sympathetic smiles plastered Quentin’s way. “She doesn’t let him grow outside of the perception she’s held for way too fucking long.”

Margo regarded him for a moment, reading every line of his face like a dense yet intriguing text.

“Yeah, duh, that’s true,” Bambi said, quiet. “Honestly, you’re kinda preaching to the choir about that. She patronizes the shit out of him.”

“So then we’re on the same page,” Eliot said, flopping back again. “Goodie.”

But Margo opened her mouth, like she was going to say something. But then she licked her lips and looked away, swallowing. She dipped her head down and her brows furrowed, uncharacteristically cautious.

Eliot’s eyebrows jumped up. “Getting shy on me, Bambi?”

That grabbed her attention. She flipped him off as she snapped, “Never.”

He held out his hands, ever the host. “Then the floor is yours. You obviously want to say something.”

“You’re not gonna fuckin’ like it,” Margo said, tilting her head at him. He frowned as he laughed.

“First of all, I don’t like any of this,” Eliot said, just as a wave of exhaustion and heartache almost swallowed him whole. He pushed past it. “Second of all, whether someone _ likes _ what you have to say has never been a concern of yours ever before. Why start now?”

She pursed her lips for another long beat, before raising her eyebrow. She licked her lips and breathed out, nodding.

“Fine,” Bambi said, an almost hissing taunt in her voice. “In that case, I’ll ask this: Has it ever occurred to you that Julia feels that exact same way about _ our _ relationship?”

Huh.

Wow.

Okay.

She was right.

… He didn’t _ fuckin’ like that _.

Eliot’s blood turned to stone. “She’s wrong.”

“Is she?” Margo ran her tongue over her teeth, rubbing her eyes. “How many times have you said implied something catty about me sounding like Julia? Or outright said, _ Well, that’s not what _ my _ Margo would do _?”

Defensiveness rushed an ocean of blood into his ears and his fingers itched and twitched for a cigarette. He chewed on the inside of his cheek instead, molars finding a particularly soft spot until it was raw.

“That’s not fair,” he finally spat out, lacking any other thoughts.

“You’re goddamn right it’s not fair,” Margo said, a royal proclamation. She held herself high on her knees. He couldn’t help but be awed. At whatever she saw in his eyes, peering up at her in wonder, she softened, falling against his shoulder and speaking into his shirt.

“Yeah, okay. So I’ve changed being with Julia. But I changed from being your friend too, dick,” she said, grabbing fistfuls of fabric and looking up at him through her lashes. “Same way you’ve changed because of Q.”

Eliot scoffed, even over the rush of truth up his spine. “Not that much.”

Margo peeled off him and fixed him with a fond gaze, her thumb stroking back and forth along the divot in his chin, the one she knew he fucking hated.

“Ah, yeah, newsflash?” She smirked, like she was about to reveal a great scandal. “_ My _Eliot wouldn’t have spent hours walking around the fucking woods with a twitchy little nerd in grunge gear who wasn’t even sucking his dick.”

Touche. But he didn’t go down that easily. He scooted backward to lie against her metal headboard and inexplicable green paisley scarf tied behind it, gathering her into his arms once again. She went happily, nosing at his jawline and wrapping an arm across his waist.

“Now, now, I very much _ wanted _ him to suck my dick,” Eliot said, academically, lips against her hair and professorial finger in the air. “I even wore many a phallus emphasizing pair of pants—“

“Those are _ all _ your pants,” Margo said, tilting her head up with an adoring half-smile.

He smiled. “Still, does that count for nothing? Have the mighty fallen so far that my efforts can’t even be appreciated?”

She gave him a weak smile at his weak attempt at banter, before curling back into him with a pained and gentle sigh. Her arms clasped even tighter around him and he rested his chin on top of her head, waiting for whatever she was struggling to say.

“You opened your heart to someone new and it changed you,” she said, repeating herself the way she hated. But Eliot had always been her exception. “I think that’s what happens, honey, in healthy relationships. And the way you’ve grown? It’s not all bad.”

When her eyes met his, they were so sincere, it was blinding. He couldn’t quite accept it, so he chuckled, wet and sorrowful and full of love. But he leaned back on his crutch, teasing her. Still, he hoped she felt the appreciation in every syllable to come.

“Not _ all _ bad,” he said, gently making light. Her eyes brightened and she sputtered her lips, waving her hands in the air.

“Well, come on, the woods? What?” Her voice was all brassy performance and fuck, he loved her. “You hate everything about nature. You once said your dream was to live on the fuckin’ International Space Station, not for the adventure or scientific discovery, but so that you’d never be _ inconvenienced _ by fresh air again.”

“That, and my astronaut kink,” he reminded her with a giant grin. She rolled her eyes, but it was good humored. “So I stand by it.”

Unwelcome against his attempt at levity, his mind’s eye flashed to sitting on a mossy log with soft brown hair resting against his knee, quietly intimate and wholly centering the universe in a single point of contact. Eliot’s mouth went dry and everything was numb before his senses crashed, and then _ everything _ hurt too much, all over again.

He squeezed his eyes shut. “You know. Mostly.”

“It’s okay. That’s what I’m saying,” Margo whispered into his chest. She held his hand, her tiny fingers tangling with his. He held on like a lifeline. “But I wish it was okay for me too, in your eyes.”

_ You’ve always been my perfect girl _, Eliot thought helplessly. But he was trying to stop putting his own bullshit on others, so he kissed her forehead and sighed, holding her close.

“Well. I guess if you really like yoga,” he said quietly, seriously. “I can like Margo liking yoga.”

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

But to his surprise—always to his damn surprise with her—Bambi let out a honking laugh and shook her head, intense and emphatic as he’d ever seen.

“Oh, no, fuck yoga,” she said with a gasp for breath and Eliot’s heart leapt. “Jesus.”

He sputtered out his own laugh, “What? I thought you were living that Namaste life now.”

“Hell no,” Bambi said vehemently, before erupting into another bout of giggles. “Breathing is the goddamn worst!”

“I’ve been saying that for years,” Eliot said, poking her arm for emphasis, an undeniable sparkle rushing through his veins. She laughed more and nipped at his earlobe, like an affectionate kitten to another affectionate kitten.

“It’s so boring,” Margo confirmed with a final snort. Then she sobered, glancing away. He understood. “But it makes her happy when I go. So.”

She tightened her jaw muscles and stared off into space, like she was abashed at the words that tumbled out of her mouth. But Eliot knew. He knew better than she even knew he knew. Because, fuck, Eliot was at the point in his life where he would go to San Diego Comic Con if Quentin even jokingly asked him to and they weren’t even _ together _, so.

So.

The thought crashed down on him like a rough wave and he let out a harsh laugh, totally out of context. Jesus.

His first year self really would be horrified.

Then again, his first year self would have happily been Mike McCormick’s fuck boy. So perhaps character development wasn’t entirely mortifying. Just, you know—

_ Mostly _ mortifying.

Ladies and gentlemen: Growth.

Meanwhile, Margo stiffened at his laugh, thinking it was directed at her moment of quiet vulnerability. Shit. He made a quick shushing sound and pulled her into him, giving into his almost constant desire to wrap his arms fully around her, a feast for his famine.

“I get it. I’m sorry,” Eliot whispered to the soft hair at her temple, a promise. “I’ll try harder.”

Bambi went boneless against him and nodded, obviously unwilling or unable to say anything more. For awhile, they laid there, resting together. The lights in her room twinkled, not from magic or electricity, but from his perception. His exhaustion was starting to take over again, his heart slowing to a pitiful thud in his chest. He was dizzy without movement and he knew he should have given into the dark cloak of sleep that was numbing all his extremeities.

Instead, he spoke again, his own pit of hope and despair growing ever wider, all at Margo’s mercy. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bumped up and down against her nose, stirring her to look up at him.

“But can you—” Eliot bit the tip of his tongue and closed his eyes. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking for, but he knew he had to ask it. “Can you try a little harder for me too?”

His hindbrain, his first year self, the boy who once spat on the ground in front of Taylor Delatolas all screamed in unison,_ You’re so fucking weak, you clingy asshole, who do you think you are _ _ ? No wonder they never loved you, you’re too much all the goddamn _—

—Eliot forced them all to shut the fuck up. He also forced his eyes open, so he could look at Margo. He owed her that. Hell, he owed himself that.

But at her face, he snorted, a soft and affectionate laugh. Predictably, she was a little frozen, a little thrown, maybe a little horrified. She was about as equipped for this kind of conversation as he was. He imagined from the outside, they probably looked like two toddler squids, rolling around each other and trying in vain to talk like humans do.

Margo opened and closed her mouth several times before she finally spoke, clearing her throat and ripping eye contact away as fast she could.

“Yeah. Yeah. I thought—” Bambi let out a shuddering breath, like they were the four most painful syllables ever spoken. She cleared her throat again and shook her head. “Yeah, I thought giving you space would help you get your ass in gear. I thought you needed it.”

Everything in the world settled into a pure calm, as he ran his hand down the length of her arm and took her hand in his. He kissed her knuckles and sighed.

“I need _ you _, Margo,” Eliot said, without a drop of hesitation.

Bambi gasped and her eyes darkened for a second, glassy and wandering. She sniffed and closed her eyes, wading in the words for a moment. Then she surged forward to give him a bright peck on the cheek. When she pulled back, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and laughed, staring up at him.

“Jesus,” she said, pushing her hair back and rolling over, to give them both some much needed breathing room. “You’re definitely spending way too much time with Q. Earnest motherfucker.”

Eliot didn’t miss a beat. “Now you know how I feel.”

“Yeah, yeah, asshole,” Margo said, sitting up and stretching out to her toes. Then she let out a small laugh, glancing over at him like she had a secret. Which was probably why she said: “Since we’re sharing our deep, dark secrets, like how much we enjoy each other as people—”

“Ugh, let’s move on,” he said, shuddering performatively. “Give our dignity some time to recover.”

She laughed and elbowed him, a gentle ribbing, before piercing him with something still more serious than ever before. “You know what really bonded Q and me?”

Eliot frowned. “Fillory?”

“Nah,” Margo said, sitting up and tucking her legs under her. Slight dark circles were forming under her eyes, but her hands were twitching, like she was shocked with adrenaline. “That’s superficial stuff.”

“Then tell me,” Eliot said, tilting his head and offering a gentle smile. In turn, Margo smiled down to herself and took her hair in her hand, twisting the ends over to one side of her shoulder. She played with it for awhile, twisting and sliding, unreadable thoughts painted over her eyes.

“Well, one night, you were off with some city twink and Julia was studying, so Q and I went to town on some tequila and—“ she chuckled, but wiped away a tear at once, and oh, shit, this was another _ real _ thing. “Normally, I’d literally rather die than tell you this, but, well, uh, he and I—“

Oh my god.

Eliot’s eyes almost popped out of his head. “You two _ fucked _?”

It wasn’t—it was—it wasn’t really—

Huh.

Honestly, he wasn’t even mad about it? It was just weird? He just needed to process that. It was fine. It was totally fine. Margo could do what she wanted. Quentin could do what he wanted. Neither of them were beholden to anyone, and you know, _ hey _, it wasn’t like he could judge—

—Anyway, thank fuck, Bambi cut off his jumbled thought process by letting out a shrieking laugh.

“Holy shit, no,” she said, sticking out her tongue. “Fuck no. God.”

That sent a sudden ripple of defensiveness through him because, well, she could do _ worse _than Quentin Coldwater. Her reaction was kind of uncalled for.

(It was a weird night.)

“First of all, I would’ve shouted that from the rooftops, just to embarrass the kid,” Margo clarified, lifting her mouth into a half-smirk before laughing again. “Second of all, I’m dating his best friend. We’re open, but not that fucking open. Third of all, duh? You obviously _loved_ him. I wouldn’t do that.”

Sour feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, but he didn’t make any denials. “Then—?”

Margo slumped forward and groaned, wiggling her toes. “It was actually way more embarrassing. We just—” she cringed, squinting her eyes up at Eliot from over her shoulder, like she was about to admit a major federal crime, “cuddled and watched old Paul Newman movies, on the projector. And then, when we were snuggling under a blanket and eating popcorn—“

He blinked hard, brain entirely overwhelmed with disbelief at the toothache sweetness of the imagery. 

What?

“I am—genuinely devastated that I wasn’t a part of this,” Eliot said with a breathy laugh. He was teasing. Half-teasing.

A quarter teasing.

… Okay, fine, not teasing. He would have dropped Nameless Nelson to be there so fast, every head in the world would have spun in unison, happy? It was bullshit that Margo hadn’t gotten word to him, immediately. As he pouted privately, Margo must have seen one or several shifts on his face because she laughed at him, before lying down with her arms draped over her eyes. She sighed, back to whatever serious shit she was trying to get through.

“Anyway, Quentin told me that he has always—he always felt like he was doomed to be forever off to the side, you know? Julia’s _ sidekick _, as he put it,” Bambi said, voice clipped. “That it was the only way anyone ever saw him or would ever see him.”

Eliot snorted because he couldn’t help it. It earned him a vicious glare from between her forearms. But come on.

“That was your big friendship catalyst?” He rested back on his elbows, a vision in incredulity. “Q’s rampant self-esteem issues? Hate to break it to you, but that's a 'just wait five minutes' thing.”

With a frustrated sigh, Bambi set her jaw and dropped her arms, staring doll-like up at the ceiling.

“I understood what he meant, okay? I got it. I—sympathized,” Margo said quietly, eyes still unblinking. She looked tinier than Eliot had ever seen her. “Because I’ve always felt like people think, you know, that I’m _ your— _“

Blinding ferocity ripped through him and he gripped at her arm, wild and serious. “Margo. No.”

But she just smiled at him and sat up slowly, unbothered. “Chill. I’m not Quentin. I don’t internalize that shit.”

Heart pounding in his mouth, Eliot narrowed his eyes. “You just said—“

“Difference is, I know I stand on my own,” Margo said coolly, tossing her hair back. “I know that I’m fabulous in my own right and that anyone who sees me as nothing but your… _ whatever _ can suck my dick _ . _”

“Damn right,” Eliot growled and Margo cupped his cheek, gazing at him with heartstopping adoration.

“But I don’t think you realize that the first person to really see that, without me having to prove it by clawing tooth and fucking nail to relevance, was—“

He sighed, nodding solemn and true. “Q.”

Of course it was Q. He always saw the best in everyone. Their truth, their light. God, the kind way he approached the world reflected back from everything he touched, without even meaning to. That was just—who Quentin was. Fuck.

They were all so lucky to know him.

He gave her a sad smile, taking in her blank expression, save her squinted and calculating eyes. But then after a beat, Margo laughed again. 

It was loud and wet, still filled with her well-hidden tears, but the cackling sound filled the air like an electric charge. At his confused jolt back at her unexpected reaction, she smiled and clicked her tongue against her teeth, shoulders still shuddering with silent giggles.

“No, you lovesick dummy,” she said as she reached up to brush his curls back from his brow. “Julia.”

“Oh.”

… Okay, yeah. That kind of made more sense. He opened his mouth to say as much but couldn’t find the words. So he looked away instead, biting his lower lip. He felt weirdly exposed, even in light of everything else he had admitted that night.

“Fuckin’ dummy,” Margo repeated, affectionately. She twisted a single curl around one finger and smirked.

“Well, you were talking about your grand, life altering, leave-Eliot-out-in-the-cold bonding moment with him,” Eliot said, slightly annoyed. She rolled her eyes and the skin under his collar was hotter than before. “So I extrapolated.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding with an infuriating and condescending scepticism. Then she slumped against him, cheek to his shoulder. “Anyway, you know you’re that person for him, right?”

He craned his neck to look down at her, with a confused frown. “What do you mean?”

“The first person who didn’t make him feel like a sidekick,” Margo said, with her smallest smile, angel face aglow in the magic light. “The first person who actually saw him.”

Eliot’s heart went dark and free fell down in his chest. He glared away from her. “Yeah, ah, that’s a hell of an assumption.”

“No. It’s not,” Margo said, each word heavy with meaning. She pressed her lips together, wane. “I told you, we bonded.”

The world got blurry again and his heart sprung back to its usual place, though his stomach did a cartwheel on a tilt-a-whirl. 

It was a miracle that Eliot managed another strangled, “Oh.”

Margo’s kissed his shoulder once. “What happened tonight, El?”

He was so tired.

“We fought,” he said again, quietly. Then he closed his eyes, everything too shaky. “He told me he wants—that he _ wanted _ us to be together. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t. So he left, said I’m full of shit but wasn't capable of change.”

“So he was half-right,” Bambi said, a gentle teasing. Eliot tried to smile in acknowledgement but he couldn’t feel his face muscles. Couldn’t say anything more. So he just stared straight ahead, barely breathing.

Thankfully, Margo seemed to understand, patting his arm with a new kind of finality. “Chin up, buttercup. You’ll fix it. I’m not fuckin’ psychic, but I’ll sacrifice my Birkin to the fire gods if this is the end of the road for you and Q.”

“Nothing’s changed,” Eliot reminded her, wobbling the words out and lacing his fingers together. “I’m still not—I still don’t deserve him.”

“Shut the fuck up,” was all Margo said, closing her eyes as she rested back against him. She was running out of steam. So Eliot pulled down her comforter and her cool linen sheets, rolling her into the soft blankets. She hummed and he stripped down to his briefs, before cuddling in with her. She curled away and he traced his hand up and down her back—still covered in her robe—and he painted gentle patterns between her shoulder blades.

“I will go find him though. Talk to him, for real, to clear the air,” Eliot said with a quiet sigh. “In the morning. So maybe I won’t actually lose him altogether. Gotta try, right?”

Always.

But Margo made a resigned sound, shaking her head.

“Honestly, sweetie,” she said through a yawn, “I wouldn’t risk getting between a mama bear and her cub just yet.”

Knowing exactly what she meant, anger electrified him, like a jolt of caffeine. “God, he’s not a—“

“El, this is me gently telling you that based on what you’ve said, Julia _ will _hex your face off if you go anywhere near Q before his finals,” Margo said, sleepy and not turning toward him. She was still no nonsense as fuck, as always. “When’s his last one?”

“Tuesday,” Eliot said automatically, not even knowing how he knew it. But he knew it.

“So talk to him then. Give everyone a chance to breathe, clear their head,” Margo said, before rolling around to touching her forehead to his and dipping her voice low, teasing. “You can pass the time by working on your fucking thesis, you layabout.”

“I do deserve punishment,” Eliot said, aiming to joke. But it choked him and he turned his face into her pillow, desperate to hide. He heard her sad breaths as she ran her fingers up and down the nape of his neck, too silent. Too thoughtful.

“I wish you had just gone for it with him, early on. That’s what I thought you would do,” Margo whispered. “Why the fuck didn’t you?”

“I didn’t think he wanted me,” Eliot swallowed. But that wasn’t quite true. 

Well, it was. He genuinely hadn’t believe Quentin ever wanted him. For so long, his mind’s refrain when he saw Quentin had been the same: _ Why don’t you want me? Why don’t you want me? Why don’t you want me? _

Except that was bullshit.

He’d _ always _ fucking known it was a smokescreen, even to himself. Because there was another question, a truer one, that both plagued and answered all his worst thoughts . It wasn’t _ Why doesn’t he want me? _Not really.

But rather—

Eliot tried for a laugh, but it was choked. “Why would he want me?”

Without a single pause, Margo grabbed his face and stared him dead in the eye. “Because that boy thinks you’re the greatest thing since the first time the sun shined on the Earth, El. And because you are good, and beautiful, and the most wonderful person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, so shut the fuck up with your defeatist garbage, you hear me?”

He blinked away his gathering tears and pressed his forehead to hers, just taking a moment to appreciate the power of Margo Hanson. Unable to dwell though, he fell back, letting the fluffy pillow gather like a cloud around him. Maybe he could float away, into the stars.

“Well,” he said slowly, “even if that first part was ever true, I’ve thoroughly proved him wrong by now.”

Margo was also a realist. She deflated, hand dropping on the pillow. “The last few weeks haven’t—been great.”

“Not like you to be that gentle,” he said with a yawn of his own. He glanced over at the clock. Shit, normally if he was up until six, he had a lot more to show for it. Now, all he had was the slow rebuilding of his broken spirit. Boring.

Meanwhile, Margo made a sharp sound with her tongue and twisted her lips at him.

“You want me to be honest right now?” It was a threat. “About your behavior?”

“No,” Eliot said softly. He knew.

“Didn’t think so. Anyway, you know,” she said, stretching and yawning, flipping back around and curling into him. She was telegraphing sleep and he obliged, spooning her. “Deep down, you’re more self-aware and empathetic than anyone.”

That made Eliot laugh. “Maybe really deep down.”

Margo’s cheek curved up into a devious smile as she closed her eyes. “Like, really, really, really…”

As her litany faded into dawn, sleep finally overtook them, even as their hands remained entwined.

* * *

**~**~**

* * *

** _Brakebills University, December 20, 2016  
  
_ **

*  
  


**AKA… Tuesday**

Eliot finished the draft of his thesis in less than three days.

Third years had a sporadic class schedule, especially leading into the second semester. Most of his classmates were already on their third or fourth revisions, working tirelessly with their advisors to reach perfection. Eliot, on the other hand, had opted out of both an “advisor” and “doing any significant work” prior to that point. But that was only because he _ knew _ he would be able to spin out gold from his bullshit, fueled by sleepless heartache and mania, while he waited for the second year finals schedule to complete. Waited for the stroke of the clock, so he could have one of the most enormously difficult conversations of his whole damn life with the most enormously important person in his whole damn life. The usual.

Eliot had holed up in the computer lab, surrounded by those ridiculous hanging crystals that Fogg commissioned to hold up the Technology is Bad ruse. For hours a day, he clacked his fingers relentlessly against the keyboard, pretending the rhythm wasn’t a clattering refrain of _ Quentin Quentin Quentin _pounding in his eardrums. But in the end, after about ten hours of total sleep since Sunday, he had pulled a fully written defense and a well-designed practicum from the darkest trench of his ass. And it was good. It was really good.

He was damn good.

(Eliot especially knew his work was_ good _because he had Margo read over it… and when she finished, she set her mouth in an annoyed line, threw it on the ground, and said, “I hate you.” It was her only feedback.)

But for once in his life, he mourned the lack of schoolwork as he paced around his room, hands fluttering and spasming against the wool of his pants. His eyes darted back and forth between the movements of his feet and the ticking clock on his nightstand. Well, it wasn’t actually ticking. It may as well have though, with how his body thrummed at every passing second, heart jumping with with that same clattering refrain of_ Quentin Quentin Quentin _.

Avoiding Q had been easier than he even planned. 

Mostly because Q was staying with Julia and hadn’t been to the Cottage once in the days past. 

Eliot definitely didn’t know that because he had taken all his smoke breaks around the library, scanning his eyes toward the Knowledge Kid entrance with every inhale. And he also definitely didn’t hide behind a hedge and crouch into the dirt like a fucking stalker, all to watch Quentin walk to and from class with her every day. Nope. He wouldn’t do that.

Anyway.

He had promised himself—and Margo, more importantly—that he would wait until 4:30 PM on Tuesday to find him. It was perfect timing.

Quentin was only planning on going to his dad’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas proper, spending the rest of the time at Brakebills with the Misfit Toys. The way he had put it a few weeks earlier, Q loved his dad but two days in the same house was about the max he could handle. Of course, Eliot couldn’t relate to any that, so he had just nodded along empathetically. But it meant clearing the air sooner than later was important, so they could enjoy the lack of classes the way Bacchus intended. Made sense, right?

Right.

Anyway.

The minute hand moved to the six, and all the excuses to avoid the discussion rushed to the center of his chest. The tide was so strong, it almost knocked him backwards. But he closed his eyes and breathed, pushing down every doubt with what little strength he had. He let the refrain overpower him—_ Quentin Quentin Quentin _—and nodded to himself, resolved.

Eliot slid his hands down his gray button down and put on a green blazer, feeling safe under the beautiful fabric. He stepped quietly into the hallway and walked four doors down, steadfastly ignoring the siren call of the mirror. He didn’t really want to know how he looked. He knew he would never be satisfied. 

Standing in front of Quentin’s room, he cocked his head, listening for signs of life. There was a chance he would have to go to the library to find him—worst case scenario—but his heart stuttered with relief as he saw a shadow move in the thin line under the door and heard a thump against the wall.

Licking his lips, Eliot didn’t let himself think anymore as he rapped his knuckles against the wood. His breath hitched as the doorknob turned almost instantly and the hinges creaked. He was on the verge of a heart attack as warm light spilled out and the quizzical face on the other side turned stern, staring up at him with growing recognition.

Correction.

_ This _ was the worst case scenario.

Julia’s intense brown eyes glared at him before she laughed, a harsh and breathy sound. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth with a long hiss and she shook her head, averting her gaze like she couldn’t stand to look at him a second longer. Then—

She slammed the door in his face, the force biting the tip of his nose.

Fuck.

Eliot clenched and unclenched his fists, jaw tensing and popping. But as he raised his hands up again to begin a pounding that even Julia Wicker wouldn’t be able to ignore, the door surprised him by swinging back open. 

Julia stood there, head tilted and muscles tensed into stone as she looked him up and down, like he was a pile of dead vermin. He opened his mouth to tell her to fuck off but the words died as he glanced down at her arms.

They were wrapped around his discarded vest, pocket square, and shoes, perfectly arranged, with a small white envelope nestled on top.

He hadn’t realized his heart was in his throat until he could feel it slide down until it thudded cold in his stomach. His eyes closed against his will and he leaned a long hand against the doorframe, to keep himself steady.

“Where is he?” Eliot lifted his head and eyes again, hoping for once she would be able to see the desperation in the question.

If she did, it didn’t move her. Instead, her cheeks widened into a falsely bright smile as thrust the pile into his chest, making him stumble back.

“Have a good break, asswipe,” Julia chirped without further answer, sparking fingers patting his shoulder with a series of bitter smacks. She slid around him in a single motion and stormed down the stairs, not turning back. 

The door was still open though and without thinking, Eliot walked in and sunk down on Quentin’s bed. He stared down at the paper beacon in the center of his clothes, the world narrowing as he did.

Because the surface, in familiar handwriting, read: “ELIOT.”

Chest tight and hands shaking, he turned the envelope over in his hands, trying to treat it with the reverence it deserved. He ran the edge of his thumbnail under the adhesive, popping the flap open. Two pieces of notebook paper slipped out, folded in the middle and stapled in the corner. They still had their curled and frayed edges, like they were ripped out in haste, the words far more important than the aesthetic. It was a very Quentin detail that made his eyes sting.

With a final deep breath and a prayer to someone for courage, Eliot unfolded and read.

_ Dear El, _

_ Off to the Promised Land early, staying for a week or so. _ _ Maybe _ _ two. No hospital, I swear. _ _ But I need the mundanity of once familiar surroundings to parse through the jumble of my fractured mind _ _ . What else is new? Must be Tuesday. Etc., etc., etc. _

_ The thing is, I’m sorry for everything. _

_ Well, wait, let me restart. To be clear, you were a total dick. You’ve been a total dick, to everyone, for reasons I still can’t figure out. It’s been frustrating as hell, I’ll tell you that. Of course, as much as mysteries gnaw at my brain like termites, I don’t actually expect to get any answers. I know it’s _ _ just _ _ part of who you are. But it doesn’t make the impact of your dickishness any less shitty for the rest of us. So I don’t take that part back. You were a DICK, before, after, always. _

_ But I also lashed out some internalized anger bullshit that I _ _ probably _ _ should have found a healthier outlet for awhile ago _ _ . _ _ Julia’s been trying to get me to do kickboxing, which I’m 100% sure would do nothing except make me look like a Yorkshire Terrier having a seizure _ _ . Not useful. But at the same time, considering how I _ _ just _ _ treated you, _ _ maybe _ _ an actual punching bag would have been a better call. Jules may be annoying as shit, but she’s not always wrong. (Don’t tell her I said that.) _

_ Anyway, what I should have done doesn’t matter. What matters is what I did, how I acted, and how I treated the most important people in my life. I let my anger drive and thus, I was also a total dick. To everyone, but _ _ mostly _ _ to you. The worst part is that I knew what I was doing as I was doing it. For that, and more, I’m sorry, Eliot. _

_ See, I thought I had it figured out, you know? _ _ I had the formula, the calculations, the fucking circumstances all aligned. My stubborn ass knew without a shadow of a doubt what the sensible outcome not only should be, but what it had to be _ _ . _ _ I had this concept in my head about what we were and who we could be, if only I could show you how well we worked, how good we were for each other _ _ . Fucked up in hindsight, but I _ _ was determined _ _ . _

_ The way I saw it, the _ _ objective _ _ pattern was there, in our friendship and our chemistry, the way _ _ I feel _ _ around you. It was there in the way you make me a better version of myself and how I thought, _ _ maybe _ _ , I had a similar effect on you _ _ . _ _ It was there in the way the world was always brighter and more magical when we were together, even doing nothing at all _ _ . _ _ The way there was nowhere else I would rather be than on a walk with you and how sometimes when you looked at me, it was like you felt the same. Like I _ _ really _ _ wasn’t alone here _ _ . So I fell for you, and nothing else mattered, except finding the answer. _

_ In short, I got tunnel vision and when you didn’t reciprocate, I freaked the fuck out. _

_ Because who were you to ignore the evidence? Who the fuck were you to deny how right we are for each other? How could you see this _ _ mathematically _ _ cogent argument and still turn away? _ _ Maybe _ _ you were _ _ just _ _ afraid, I told myself. _ _ Maybe _ _ I _ _ just _ _ needed to wait longer, convince you more, prove it more _ _ clearly, over time _ _ . Then you’d see. Then you’d _ _ see _ _ and then you’d want me too. _

_Shockingly__ though, that’s not how relationships work. It doesn’t matter how __intensely_ _I feel__ something. It doesn’t matter if every analysis would point to the same conclusion. What matters is that you don’t feel the same way, because human emotions can’t __be computed__. __Also, the hypothesis __was brought__ forth by a __heavily__ biased scientist/Magician from the get-go, so the results __were inherently skewed__. But that’s not actually here nor there. Tangent, sorry._

_ At the end of the day, these things are unquantifiable in a way I didn’t want to admit. _ _ I wanted the world to fit my conceptions, since otherwise, I’m all the more mired by my sense of pointlessness _ _ . But that’s not fair to put on you and so from now on, I won’t. And that’s what I’m done with, El. Not you. Not ever you. _

_ I’m sorry I was selfish. I’m sorry I couldn’t accept all you’ve given me with an open heart, even if it wasn’t everything I want. Because, in case I’ve never told you, you’ve given me so much. More than anyone in my life. _

_ So I accept your answer, _ _ fully _ _ and without further reservation. _

_ Anyway, if you’re still with me here, I thank you for taking the time to delve into the longest non-required reading you’ve ever done _ _ . (Just a little levity. I know you read. Sometimes.) Really though, _ _ I hope I do _ _ see you before the new year, if I can get my shit together enough to manage it. Most of all, I hope we can rebuild in the next year too. _

_ By the way, I’m working on forgiving you for your part. I know you’re sorry. You don’t have to say it. _ _ Just _ _ try to be better and I will too. _

_ Take care. _

_ Your friend,  
_ _ Q _

_ P.S. I’m sure you want to reassure me of our friendship ASAP. I mean, I do know you. But despite the concillatory tone herein, I’m actually still fucking pissed and need space. I’ll reach out when I’m ready, okay? _

The pages fluttered to the floor, and Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he cried.

Actually cried. Not the light gathering of tears in the corner of his eyes, the blink of wet lashes, the beautiful pain kind of shit. That was all part of it.

No, realistically, the last time he really cried—sobbed—was probably in Indiana. Maybe it was after he beat the shit out of Taylor or when he killed Logan or maybe when his pastor blamed his queerness for his dad’s heart attack. Wasn’t really relevant, because they were ghosts of memories now. Not visceral, not affecting.

Which was why he had forgotten what it felt like to have your whole face soaked with tears. The way your lungs shuddered with violent breaths, shaking your shoulders. He’d forgotten how snot ran down your throat and out your nose at the same time, the tightness of screwed up eyes, the heat of the flush across your whole body. The way your eyes screwed up tight, the world tilting and sloshing around with the deluge of wet salt and overpowering emotions. The way it teetered you over on you side, knees tucked into your chest, trying to close in over the ripped pit of despair. It had been a long time, so it made sense that he didn’t remember. He couldn’t have remembered.

But after Eliot clicked Quentin’s door shut with a snap of telekinesis and curled himself into his pillows—not caring if that was an utterly insane thing to do or not—the foreman crossed out the huge number beside the words _ Days Since Eliot Sobbed His Guts Out _ and wrote a big fat zero. And so, he cried and cried, broken sounds escaping along with tears, sweat, snot, and saliva, nothing pretty about it, nothing suiting his lifelong cultivation. But he didn’t care. He couldn’t care about anything but that which propelled the force of emotions out in the first place.

Eliot cried for Q. He cried for how much he loved him and how much he had fucked everything up. He cried for Margo, who he had lost and found and was too good to him. He cried for Julia, who rightfully fucking hated him. He cried for Alice, who proved his heart could still open, could still grow, but who he had turned away because he couldn’t handle it.

He cried for Taylor and Logan and his awful brothers and he cried for Indiana and he cried for Oscar Wilde and he cried for the future. He cried for truth serums and Ibiza and his flask and the destroyed Cottage and every picnic he’d ever put together, every party he’d ever thrown. And then he cried for Quentin again, his sobbing unknown apology, for having failed him, for having almost _ lost him _, over and over again.

Finally, Eliot cried for himself. The lost dreamer, the shy farm kid. The closeted teenager, the haughty undergrad. He cried for _ Eliot Waugh _, and all that entailed. He cried, cried, cried. He felt like he would never stop. He felt like his heart was pulsating through his skin. He felt like the world had broken open. He felt everything.

Everything.

Anyway, it wasn’t as therapeutic as promised.

Tiny and pathetic, Eliot was officially a mess of splotchy skin and ruined fabric. Honestly, he wasn’t sure why people insisted on crying being helpful. He was still a total piece of shit, but now his face was puffy.

But at the same time—holy fuck.

_Holy fuck_.

God, Quentin was so brave.

He was so strong, and so good, and so gentle, and so _fucking_ _ridiculous with this shit_, and so earnest, and loving, and kind, and everything Eliot wasn’t. Everything he wasn’t, but wished he could be, if only because Q taught him the value of it. Taught him that it was worth it to try in any small way, even if was an effort in futility.

And it was worth it, right?

It was worth it to want to be more, to strive for more, to look at the world and fucking _ hope _ for more. It was all worth it, to feel it. With a jolt of thundering wisdom, it was then that Eliot realized, with stunning clarity—

Loving Quentin wasn’t a weakness.

It was strength.

It had always been strength, from the first time his smile grew at his big wide eyes darting terrified around a Welter stadium, from the first time his heart skipped when Quentin lodged a smile at him and he had thought, Hmm, that's new. From the first time Eliot opened himself up to him, had grown to want to care for him, found more happiness in Quentin's happiness than anything else on the planet. It had never been weakness. That was the only thing left to acknowledge, because he knew the rest.

With a soft laugh, Eliot ran his shaking hands through his hair, certainly frizzing it, especially with how tear soaked they were. But he couldn’t help the slow smile that spread on his face, the sweet contentment unraveling through his chest regardless.

Holy fuck.

Seemingly tangential, Eliot had once told Margo that their relationship defied categorization. To make things easy, they had always bandied the words _ platonic soulmate _ around. It was only half-serious, because it was the only way they could describe the depth of feeling, the intensity of their connection. That wasn’t quite right though. He knew that now, as he traced his thumb across Quentin’s flannel sheets.

Margo was the beating heart of him. She moved his blood, she grounded him, she pushed him forward. She reminded him who he was, who he had always been, and how much she loved him anyway, how much he was worthy of that love, even with all his mountainous faults. He couldn’t exist without her because she had become such a part of him, a part would never and could never be extracted. Fuck, was he fortunate for that. He was so fortunate for his fierce and loving Bambi, who gave his spirit its vigor. She was his and he was hers, inextricable.

But Quentin was his soulmate.

No qualifiers, no distinction between romantic or platonic or whatever bullshit. He was his other half, the missing piece. Quentin challenged him and comforted him and made him better with efforts known and unknown. Quentin brought him happiness and Eliot lived to bring him the same. He learned from him every day, in ways he didn’t even know he could learn. Eliot wanted to know every part of Quentin and, perhaps most astoundingly, Eliot wanted Quentin to know every part of him, just the same. 

He was in love with him. 

He wanted to be with him. 

But his love was yet _ more _ than that, transcendent and full. Even if Quentin told him to fuck the hell off, he would never stop fighting for him, to be part of his life in any way he could. And miraculously, the feeling seemed to be mutual. And it was because Quentin was his soulmate, pure and simple.

Because it _ was _ simple.

Nothing had changed, but Jesus Christ, _nothing _ _ had to change. _

There was shit upon shit, and Eliot was broken, but Quentin was broken too. Maybe together they were whole. Or at least, they were broken together and wasn’t that fucking better? It had to be, right? There had to be purpose and hope in all the shit, or else what was the point?

Before, he didn’t really believe there was a point. But Q changed that.

Loving Quentin made him braver. It made him gentler and kinder. It made him try so much harder, even when he almost always failed. It made him more hopeful, more joyful, more true. Even if Eliot had lost his chance forever—certainly not out of the realm of possibility—he knew he was better for knowing Q, for loving him. And he needed to see that through, no matter what.

Sitting up on the bed, Eliot clutched at the pillow and breathed in the scent of _ Quentin _, heart rate steadying and strumming. He would. He would do that. 

He would go to Quentin and tell him everything (_ everything _ ) and lay his heart at his feet, a paltry offering with no expectation . He would be honest, open, sincere, earnest, and strong, even if it killed him. He would do that, he would _ be _that, for Quentin. And for Eliot too.

Or at least, he would try. He would try so hard.

It was a moment that truly mattered, and a rush of faith wrapped around him. No matter what happened, it would be okay. Quentin would know and that was—that was all he needed. His palms and fingers tingled and for maybe the first time in his life, determination outweighed his fear.

Eliot was ready.  
  


* * *

  
one more time: tbc.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr is @HMGFanfic! I post about The Magicians and fic and that’s it, because what else is there?


	9. A Small Band of True Friends, Pt. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you pay attention to chapter counts—don’t panic! ;) I am definitely not adding three months to this thing.
> 
> I’m posting all the remaining chapters (except the epilogue) today. They are done, in the can, kaput, finito… other than getting them in the lovely AO3 formatter around real life responsibilities. Honestly, I’m super psyched to be finishing the main narrative of this surprise epic before ringing in 2020. Phew.
> 
> On that note, Happy New Year to the best fandom on the internet! Thank you. <3

** _Brakebills University, Late December, 2016  
_ **

*

**(Part Seven of Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: “It’s Our Actions After We Do Stupid Shit That Define Us”)**

*****

**(Alternate Title: Eliot Defines Himself)**

* * *

Quentin Coldwater loved three things: Magic, the _ Fillory and Further _book series, and noble quests. 

Well, at least, you know—

As a start. 

Because Quentin also loved the idea of sailing, sleight of hand card tricks, overcast weather, LCD Soundsystem, sunflowers, dragon folklore, the surprising quiet found in New York City, golden retrievers, complex D&D campaigns, the resilience of the human spirit, Jean Luc-Picard’s leadership style, clocks, walks through the woods, arguing with unsuspecting people about Harry Potter, flavorless lip balm (because ones with flavor are “too distracting,”) long showers, Renaissance Faires, clove cigarettes, riddles, and so much more.

See, when it came to love? 

Q would never limit himself in number.

—But Eliot digressed.

Anyway, before meeting Quentin, Eliot didn’t know shit about the narrative structure of quests. But he found out within, oh, _ three hours _ of their acquaintance that noble quests were one of Q’s absolute favorite subjects to babble about. Coincidentally, it was around the same time Eliot realized exactly how much _ he _ loved to hear Q babble about, frankly, anything. 

A remarkably copacetic discovery for both of them.

To be honest though, most of the time, Eliot would let the words wash over him like a soothing meditation rather than actually _ listen _. It wasn’t that he didn’t care; indeed, Quentin’s enthusiasm was infectious from day one. But Eliot had always adored the tenor and cadence of his voice—even found great comfort in it—way more than he found interest in the specific nerdy content of his speech.

So while Eliot had heard many (many) times about Joseph Campbell and the Monomyth and _subversion_ and McMuffins, he had never really absorbed what a noble quest actually entailed or even why Quentin fixated on them so intensely, so frequently.

But that changed one day over the summer.

That quiet summer, where it had been pretty much just the two of them. The summer he would always think of as The Summer of Eliot and Quentin, in all its soft beauty and private longing. Looking back, it had been almost everything he wanted. Icarus ascending.

It had been a particularly lazy afternoon in late July and the two of them stretched out on a blanket in the center of The Sea. The sunlight was bright overhead and they laid next to each other, conversation slight and simple. They both sipped copious booze from borrowed crystal glasses and snacked on cut mango, lazing about without much care.

Unusually, Eliot couldn’t remember what he wore that day. Probably white. But Quentin was dressed in jeans and a black shirt, with the faint outline of a coffee stain down his chest. His hair had been up in a messy bun, and he hadn’t shaved for at least three days. It wasn’t a depression look—he was actually in good spirits, at least for Q. But he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, that was for damn sure.

Yet despite Q’s ragamuffin-meets-collegiate-slacker thing, Eliot could still remember watching him under the safety of his sunglasses and just thinking, _ God, I want you _ on a gentle loop, noninvasive and relaxed. Almost detached, almost irrelevant. Almost like if Quentin had rolled over and pressed their lips together, it wouldn’t have mattered more than the comfortable stillness between them.

Almost.

But a couple hours of day drinking in, Quentin stretched his arms up over his head and yawned to ask, apropos of nothing, “Do you tan?”

“Not naturally,” Eliot said in a rare admission of his imperfections. Q always made that easy though, from the start. “Without help, I go lobster red in the sun.”

“The Crustacean King,” Quentin had said with a dazzle of his hands, straight out from his chest and fingers waggling in the breeze. He was the cutest motherfucker on the planet. Eliot distinctly remembered thinking, _ Look at that cute motherfucker _. Jesus.

With an appreciative grin, Eliot propped himself up on his elbows and looked around the blanket. “On that drunken note, where the fuck is the rest of the champagne?”

“We drank it all,” Q said with a mournful sigh. “So whatever is left in your cup is all we’ve got.”

Needing to check for himself, Eliot called the bottle over and tipped it toward the open glass, only to receive a few measly droplets. He pursed his lips, sitting up to look both ways, like a Veuve Clicquot vendor would show up out of nowhere. But he only found the quiet of the empty campus and the hypnotic sound of Quentin’s steady breathing, matching the rise and fall of his chest, so close and so unthinkably far from him all at once.

“Shit,” Eliot said, blinking his thoughts back down the secret corner of his heart. “Well, that’s unacceptable. Should we head back to get more?”

“Cottage is so far away,” Quentin whined with a grin, tilting his face into the sun. And in that moment, Eliot had suddenly, urgently wanted him like that forever, where he was happy and bratty and warmly relaxed and _ next to him _. “Can’t you use telekinesis?”

A smile slid across Eliot’s face all over again. “I’m good, but not that good.”

“A piss poor attitude,” Quentin said, putting his hands behind his head and pulling his knees up, feet flat on the blanket. He smirked. “You can achieve anything, if you really believe in your dreams.”

“Well, if there _ was _ something that could provoke me into the most intricate and long-range act of telekinesis ever recorded,” Eliot said with a honey slow smile, “it would be making sure Quentin Coldwater had the champagne he wanted.”

He had played it as a joke.

(But who was he kidding?)

Blessedly unaware, Quentin’s cheeks rounded upward above his idle closed-lipped smile, though he said nothing more. Pleasant silence seeped into their tipsy bones again, humid as the air and all the warmer still. With a tingly _ ker-thump _ of his heart, Eliot mused that there was nowhere else on earth he would rather be. Not Encanto Oculto, not on a grand adventure with Margo, not in any number of beds with any number of gorgeous men. All he wanted was companionable silence in the Brakebills sun, with Quentin inches away.

Content as he thought he could ever be, Eliot had closed his eyes and almost let the beautiful nothing overtake him, when—

“It’s my birthday.”

Eliot’s eyes popped open wide. “Excuse me?”

“Twenty-four today,” Quentin said, shrugging.

“And you tell me this now,” Eliot lightly accused, clicking his tongue and kicking his ankle. But in response, Q just snuggled into the blanket, not an inch of tension or disappointment in the whole of his frame.

“Didn’t want it to be a thing,” he said, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair and landing his soft brown eyes right on Eliot. “But figured I’d mention it anyway.”

Eliot sighed and pushed his own sunglasses up, laying his cheek onto the fabric. It was cotton, still cool to the touch. “I would have at least gotten you one of those dumb cakes you like.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes in cheerful indignation. “Red velvet is a classic.”

“Red velvet is a chocolate cake with food dye in the batter,” Eliot corrected with a bright smile.

Quentin had rolled his eyes, but also rolled in closer with his lips quirked up. “Yeah, well, it’s about the cream cheese icing anyway.”

“Then eat a chocolate cake with cream cheese icing,” Eliot said, slow and condescending. But he let their knees knock together, a light touch that lit him up.

“Um, except you should be the first to appreciate the, like,” Quentin furrowed his brow and gesticulated his hands and fuck, Eliot had wanted to kiss him more he had ever wanted than anything, “‘_ aesthetics for the sake of aesthetics _’ part of the whole thing.”

“I respect that red velvet has hypnotized the masses to the beat of its mysterious power,” Eliot said with a dramatic sigh, flopping onto his back again. “But it’s a fraud, a shame, a charlatan.”

Quentin snorted unladylike into the summer sun. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’ll take that as my checkmate,” Eliot said, reaching over to sneak the last bite of ripe mango. “Please and thank you.”

Stubborn boy scoffed. “No, I just don’t argue with ridiculous people.”

“Ad hominem is beneath you, Coldwater,” Eliot said with a _ tsk _.

He wiped the dripping line of sweet fruit nectar from his chin with a cheap napkin. Then he threw the balled up paper at Q’s face for fun, the crinkled pink square landing smack on that wide grin and sticking to his lips.

Sputtering it off, Quentin sat up and rested his chin on his shoulder to glint those eyes at Eliot. “Oh yeah? Well, come here and I’ll _ show you _ beneath me.”

The world stopped moving.

Eliot couldn’t remember how to breathe.

A flash of Quentin crawling into his lap and running his hands all over him. A flash of Quentin grinding down and kissing him like he meant it. A flash of Quentin stripping them of their clothes and gasping hot into his ear. A flash of Quentin riding him, legs wrapped tight around his waist and perfect hands tangled in his curls. All at once, the images shuddered through Eliot, like a hurricane.

He wanted so much. He wanted _ too much _.

Absurdly, of all things, Eliot wished he still had his sunglasses on. But his desire had to be written in the blacks of his eyes, dangerous and revealing. Unsteady and lost, his fingers twitched involuntarily toward Q, begging to be found.

But Quentin had actually immediately slammed his own eyes shut and didn’t seem to notice the journey beside him. Instead, he winced in embarrassment and Eliot hardened his heart once again. He thought something like, _ Weakness acknowledged _. Probably.

“I mean, um, I don’t know what that meant,” Quentin said, rubbing the space between his brow with his thumb. “Sorry. I’m kinda drunk.”

“Clearly,” Eliot said airily, over his bone dry throat. And then he changed the topic like he changed pocket squares—with practiced precision.

“So do you actually want to celebrate,” Eliot dipped his head back, ever cool, “or was that a passing thought into the clouds?”

Quentin let out another one of those mournful sighs and flopped backwards, hair falling out of its tie and splaying everywhere. “Yeah, uh, I mean, as per usual, all I want for my birthday is to embark on a noble quest.”

“Ah, sure,” Eliot said with a quick nod and another twinkling smile. “Unrelated, but can I interest you in a sober charm there, kid?”

“That’s not a drunk thing,” Quentin said, looking at him with sweet seriousness. “That’s an always thing.”

Quietly, Eliot knew that.

He knew that Quentin was always dreaming of something more. Always thinking about adventure, mapping out a journey where he could finally fix the world in all the ways he wanted. And, perhaps, slightly more selfishly, Quentin was always dreaming of when the mousy kid from Montclair—the one everyone always underestimated—got to prove them all wrong. Where Q got to show them all that he was worthy, as much as the heroes he grew up wishing he could be.

On the other hand, Eliot had never been one for those kinds of fairy tales.

Hell, he could barely stand popcorn superhero movies. This was most due to their lack of merit (name one _ interesting _ difference between Iron Man and Batman, he dared you.) But it was also due to the philosophical underpinnings of the stories, the _ tropes _as Q would say. The idea of chosen ones, of people who had great power and great responsibility, and wielded both well. At the end of the day, Eliot Waugh was no one’s hero and never would be, even if it was a nice enough fantasy.

But Eliot still understood that same fervor in Q. That need to _ show ‘em, one and all _ , that need to seek _ something more _ than the shitty lots life always dealt. It was a bone deep instinct they shared, even if they went about it in vastly different ways.

So Eliot had rolled his eyes again—good-natured—and scooted in closer, until their shoulders touched. Wrapping a friendly arm around Quentin, he leveled him with a mentor’s sigh.

“Why do you want a noble quest?”

Unsurprisingly, Quentin had merely jerked one shoulder up in response, picking at a stray thread on his jean cuff.

“I don’t know,” he said, almost mumbling into his knee. “Feel like I’m ready for one.”

Eliot ducked his head to catch his eye and elbowed him, trying to bring him back down to earth as gently as possible. “What the hell does that mean?”

Quentin leaned back on his hands, casting his eyes up to the sky.

“Life’s just been such bullshit for so long, but now it’s like—” Surprisingly, Q smiled. “I don’t know. I kinda feel like this is gonna be a good one, you know? Like I’m right on the verge of finally—I don’t know. I just think twenty four’s gonna be good.”

A whole rose garden had bloomed in Eliot’s chest and he squeezed Quentin in closer. He even pushed his luck with a brief kiss on the top of his head. Hey, it was his birthday after all.

“I’m sure it will be, Q,” Eliot said, pressing their temples together. Quentin had leaned into him and all was well. “I hope so, at least.”

(And if Eliot took the chance to breathe in the smell of his hair? Well, he was only human.)

“But, like, quests always come when the hero’s on the verge, right?” Quentin said, talking more to himself than to Eliot at that point. “That’s the moment. When things are at a turning point. Even if he can’t see what’s turning.”

“Or _ she _,” Eliot said in singsong. It was both in honor of Bambi and to be an asshole. Quentin’s eyes went wide with predictable horror.

“Shit, yeah. Or she. Of course. Or she,” Quentin said, swallowing and nodding. Eliot squeezed his arm again with a chuckle. It was fine. “Anyway, I think I’m at a turning point. But can’t see it yet.”

“Do you want to be at a turning point?” Eliot asked, because that really sounded kind of awful.It reminded him of when the psychic kids talked about their bullshit about Saturn returns and other such nonsense.

Shit like that excited them in their masturbatory divination magic frenzy, since they had nothing else to live for in their pathetic existence. But Jesus Christ, how fucking _ awful _ to be so out of control of your own life and your own path, right? To have outside forces—the goddamn universe itself—determine fundamental shifts in your trajectory? How will-less. How disconcerting. How horrifying.

Eliot didn’t doubt that some people found comfort in it, in a grand plan and explanation outside their purview. He was sure they breathed easier inside an immovable framework of fate and destiny. But as far as he was concerned, the only thing that controlled Eliot Waugh was _ Eliot Waugh _. In good and bad.

But beside him, Quentin made a noncommittal sound. He kept his eyes tracing the cloudless sky above, like he was searching beyond the oversaturated blue.

“There’s such a great structure to them, you know?”

It had taken Eliot a moment to realize Quentin was still talking about the quests. He did that sometimes, circled back to things that seemed long gone.

“There are steps and goals and ways that you change that are so—clear. It’s comforting and you can track your progress, while still not knowing _ how _ you’re going to end up better,” Q said, before sighing and setting his jaw. “But you will. You’ll be better than when you started.”

A tiny part of Eliot broke at that, but he kept his face impassive. Quentin released all the tension in his shoulders, almost sliding down into a slump against him. Q pressed his lips together, not quite a smile.

“That’s what I want. I want the chance to prove it,” Quentin said, like that was that. “To prove that I can be better.”

Eliot’s arm was still slung around him but it had grown numb. He stared down at his shoes as his pulse rushed deafening through his whole body. The words came out before he could stop them, before he could overthink their implication.

“I don’t think it’s possible for you to be better, Q,” Eliot had said that day, quiet and to the side. “You’re already so good.”

He could feel a pair of eyes burning the side of his face as soon as the last syllable left his lips. All his defenses—his gut—had screamed, frantic, searching for nonsense, for humor, for beloved _ fun _. It was overpowering.

So by the time Eliot’s eyes did meet Quentin’s—gorgeously quizzical and brimming with what he now recognized, in the present, as hope—he already had the next perfectly crafted witticism dancing on his lips. 

He would make light even if it burned the world down.

“But you’re in luck, because I happen to have a _ most _ noble quest for you,” Eliot had said, sitting up straighter and smiling with all his teeth, roguish and theatrical. “The _ noblest _ quest in all the land.”

Quentin had always been a quick study and his face fell into the role of the foil with an uncanny ease. His lips twisted up under narrowed eyes.

“It’s to go get more champagne, isn’t it?”

Eliot kept speaking as though he had never been rudely interrupted. He held his hand out, wide toward the sky, eyes fixed on glory in the distance.

“First, you shall pass the treacherous walkway of stone,” he said in his deepest and most solemn voice, “red as fire, through the valley of Broken Bills—“

Quentin’s elbow hit his side and he flatly grumbled, “_ You _ go get the champagne.”

Then they both broke out into tipsy laughter, more drunk on summer than anything else. And in the end, they went to get the champagne together and Eliot had learned the meaning of quests without really meaning to.

Then, five months later to the day, Eliot received a letter from Quentin.

He didn’t believe in signs or constructs from the universe. But he did believe in symmetry and that one was too strong to ignore. Already, Eliot had thought about that day, those moments, more times than he could count. He thought about them consciously, unconsciously. He dreamed about them, dreamed about the many ways it could have been The Moment, the time when he said fuck it all to the wind and laid his heart at Quentin’s feet.

But now, in its new context, that day gave Eliot a sense of purpose. 

It gave him a way that he could approach his jittery, newfound lease on life and maybe, just maybe, _ love _ , if he was lucky enough. But even if he had thrown it all away, lost the ashes to the breeze, Eliot knew now exactly how he could _ try _, in a way that was worthy of his Quentin, that honored him, that—

“—But where the fuck did you get a chalkboard?”

Margo was sitting cross-legged on his bed and munching on goddamn Cheetos. She blinked, her orange-rimmed mouth wide open.

Eliot heaved a sigh and glared, crossing his arms. 

The chalkboard behind him was _ so _ not the point.

But Bambi was high as shit, so he had to work around it. 

In fact, she was so high that she tried to bring her goddamn Cheetos into his room in their original goddamn giant crinkly bag, complete with the hipster cheetah skateboarding on the front. Thankfully, Eliot had persuaded her to pour them into a lovely ceramic bowl, so at least the aesthetics weren’t total shit as he gave her his spiel.

(He hated when Josh Hoberman visited.)

Margo continued squinting past him, pupils unnaturally wide even in the narrow slits. So Eliot sighed again, tapping his foot.

“Also, who the fuck is _ Ugh _?” Margo pointed behind him at the list of names he’d written down, outwardly with her help and approval each step of the way. “Is it some caveman shit? Is this a horomancy thing?”

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose, not caring if chalk residue was getting in his pores. He bit the inside of his cheek for patience and spun around on his heels, to take in their hard work. He frowned a little at what he saw. It was pretty barebones, even if it had felt like a thousand years of casting just to write each letter.

In the end though, after wrenching out his very heart in the service of righting his wrongs and maybe winning over the man of his dreams, the board read:

**QUEST!**

**“Monomyth”**

**Read Joseph Campbell!!**

**“It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.” - Shakespeare (?)**

All above a short list of five names. That was the heart of the matter. They were the people Eliot had fucked over or in some way needed to talk to, based on the shitstorm of the past couple of months. Or past six months, depending on how you looked at it.

With even the space of a few minutes, Eliot could admit the whole thing wasn’t exactly his finest work.

Still, Margo had been the one to cheer him on, saying things like _ Ooh, damn, that’s the good shit _ and _ You’re killin’ it, El, you’re a sex god _as he talked and wrote. Which, yes, probably should have tipped him off. But honestly, it had been really nice to hear. 

He needed the ego boost.

Besides that, Eliot was desperate for approval. It had been a little more than 24 hours since reading The Letter for the first time. Not that long in the scheme of things, he knew. But it was still a little too long to feel like you were screaming soundlessly into the void without end. So Eliot was taking what he could get, even if it wasn’t much from Margo at that point. Other than at least one nicely rhyming couplet poem in honor of his dick.

(That had also been really nice to hear.)

“Don’t worry about the chalkboard,” Eliot said, waving her off. “What I’m trying to get feedback on is whether I tell Quentin about my, you know, _ quest _ since he’d appreciate the concept or if it’s more important to—”

Margo’s brow arched right on cue. “What fuckin’ quest?”

Goddammit.

Eliot brought his tongue to the roof of his mouth and closed his eyes. He counted backwards from ten and then opened them again, all to gaze patiently at his darling Bambi.

“The _ quest _ is the name I’m giving all my efforts to make nice with the people I fucked over so that I have the proper mindset and a clean slate before I talk to Quentin and tell him—” Eliot swallowed, still shocked to his core with terror at the very idea “—how I feel about him, for real.”

“How is it a quest?” Margo said, nose scrunching. “Who gave you the quest?”

“I gave myself the quest,” Eliot said, logically.

“That’s not how quests work, El,” Margo said, shaking her head. Her eyes were clearer than earlier and so was her piercing tone. “Quentin would be the first to fuckin’ tell you that.”

“I don’t literally mean a quest,” Eliot said, neck feeling a little hot. “It’s like a metaphor. A gesture. That I may or may not inform Q of, in its entirety. I’m not sure that it makes sense to tell him because—”

Margo cut him off with a quick raise of her hand and a serious glower over her empty snack bowl. “Your premise makes no goddamn sense.”

His patience broke.

“Look, I’m fucking trying here,” Eliot snapped out, his chin falling to his chest as his fists clenched tighter than black holes. “I need a place to put all my energy and my madness and—and my very fragile hope, or I will _ drown _. So get the fuck on board, please.”

His jaw muscles tensed and popped as a slow silence passed. Finally, he heard Margo shift on the bed.

“Fine,” she said, carefully airy. “Quest it is.”

Eliot’s eyes fell closed again. “Thank you.”

“But, like, why call it that?” Margo asked and holy shit, she was serious. “It’s not like _ quests _ are a thing between you and Q, specifically.”

Jesus.

He let his shoulders fall and he smirked up at her, more amused and resigned than annoyed. “Did you listen to _ anything _ I said for the past fifteen minutes?”

Margo groaned and fell on her back, splaying her arms out wide like she had just survived a bout of waterboarding and lived to retell the tale.

“Oh my god, that whole goddamn story? It was _ basically _ just about you making mushy faces at Q,” Bambi whined up into his ceiling. Then she popped her head up at him, stern as fuck. “My attention span only has so much breadth, babe.”

“It was important for context,” Eliot said, unashamed. It was. And he could gush occasionally, now that it was out there. Margo had been the one to tell him that he needed to talk about it the past fucking _ forever _, so she hardly got to complain—

“Look, I’m glad that you’re being honest with yourself and shit,” Bambi said, proving herself a secret psychic once again. “But you gotta simmer down with the gooey stuff.”

Eliot’s neck was scalding hot. “I’m not being _ gooey _, I’m—“

“Oh, honey,” Margo said with a patronizing smile. Eliot shot her a devastating glare. She was devastated.

“I was actually holding back a lot, for your sake,” he clarified, ever underappreciated. But on cue, Margo’s eyes went wide with horror.

“Oh, _ honey _.”

Bitch.

Eliot rushed ahead, like none of the last exchange ever fucking happened. “My point is that if I treat my journey to Q like a quest—“

But once again, Margo’s eyes were wide like plates and not in the good way. She stuck out her tongue and shook her head, vehement.

“_ Journey to Q _ ?” Margo shook her head over and over again, voice low and guttural. She reached out and lightly smacked his hand, like he was a small dog who had taken a pee in her puse. “No. _ No _, that is gross, Eliot!”

“You’re right, I heard it,” Eliot conceded, hands in the air and curls falling down his chastised face. “Please omit from the record.”

Margo breathed in relief and sat back up. Then she frowned at her empty bowl and shook it once, like food would magically appear if she did. Frustrated and sad, she stared up at him under her lashes. “I’m hungry.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes over a small smile. “Are you thinking about the cake?”

“It was the only interesting part,” Bambi said, pouting and kittenish. She leaned over to take his hand again, smiling sweetly. “Make me cake.”

How could he deny her anything?

“Okay, I will,” Eliot promised with a smile. But then he tapped on the board. “Just focus for two minutes first.”

He smiled even wider as Margo let out a loud groan, landing face first in her lap, hair flying everywhere. She jerked her shoulders several times, like she was convulsing, before slumping forward without breath. Her fingers went tense and then curled, as though in rigor mortis.

She was fine.

“Anyway, doing it this way not only cleans up my bullshit, it also gets me—” Eliot let out another slow breath, tamping down the fear, tamping down the fear, tamping down the fear “—_ prepared _ to see Q. And it gives him some space to be less mad at me when I do. Win-win.”

Without sitting up or even moving an inch, Margo made several popping noises into the space between her thighs. Noises that sounded suspiciously like, “Bawk, bawk, bawk.”

Eliot cleared his throat and put his hands behind his back, arching a brow. “Pardon me, Ms. Hanson?”

Bambi tilted just her face up, all soft sex and sharp knives. “Chickenshit dick-for-brains.”

“Your contributions to the class discussion are always so eloquently put,” Eliot said, leaning forward to tap her gently on the leg. She kicked at him.

“Well, _ you’re _ putting off what matters because you’re scared,” Margo said, voice falling into its most serious tone. He looked away. “I’m not saying Quentin won’t wait a long time, but he won’t wait forever. If you don’t reach out after that goddamn fucking letter of his, he’s going to think—”

Uh.

Wait a second.

“You’re saying that like you _ read _ the letter,” Eliot said, eyes narrowing. “I barely even told you what was in it.”

Margo pursed her lips, eyes cool. “Don’t leave shit on your nightstand if you don’t want me to snoop.”

His mouth fell open. “Are you serious?”

“Established precedent, duh,” Bambi said, rolling her eyes. Then she ticked an annoyed brow. “He stole the Yorkshire Terrier joke from me, by the way. I said that first.”

Eliot threw his hands up at the sides of his head, whisper-screaming, “_ Margo _.”

“Calm your dickhole, it’s done,” Bambi said with a yawning wave in the air. “Let’s move on.”

Eliot clamped his tongue between his molars and gave her one final sharp glare. Then he let out his breath and—well, moved on. Because some things would never change.

“I’m not being a chicken,” he said, turning back to the blackboard. “I’m trying to make sure I don’t leave a pot of boiling shit on the burner before I go and—“

“Except your boiling shit with Alice has nothing to do with Q,” Margo said, slowly and as kindly as she could manage. And while he appreciated her attempt at sympathetic tough love, for once in her life, she was actually wrong.

“It has everything to do with Q,” Eliot said with a sigh, glancing at her from over his shoulder. “Because it has to do with, you know—“

April.

Luckily, Margo didn’t make him explicate. She must have seen it all over his face, because she matched his breathiness and softened.

“El,” she said, genuinely gentle. Her fingers twitched once toward him, but she stayed still. “If you’re trying to resolve all your feelings about that before you—“

He laughed. “Oh, god, no, I’m not. What I’m saying is that literally all of this—“ Eliot moves his hand up and down above the list written in white chalk “—comes from the Quentin nucleus in some way, and I need to resolve the fall out first.”

But Margo kept staring at him, big eyes endless and concerned. She scooted forward on the bed and sat with her feet on the ground. She let out a short breath, a serious breath.

“El, you don’t have to—” Bambi swallowed, stretching her fingers out and watching the movement. “You don’t have to be _ resolved _ before talking to Q.”

“Like that’s even a possibility,” Eliot said with a laughing handwave, turning away with a_ la-di-da _ of nonchalance. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m serious,” Margo said, low and unwavering. “You don’t have to resolve all your shit to be worthy of him.”

Eliot would never be worthy of him. “I owe it to him to try.”

“No, you fucking don’t.”

“I owe it to myself then,” Eliot said, stretching his long arms up and gripping the top of the board. He pressed his forehead against the slate and sighed. “Margo, I need to see—I need to _ try _ to see something through, for once in my life. This is just something I have to do, okay?”

He turned his head around and begged her wordlessly to drop it. She pursed her lips for a moment, more arguments clearly resting below. But then she nodded, tucking them back for a rainy day.

“You know, it almost makes me proud of the unassuming little bastard,” she said, changing tactics with a slow smirk. “He has no idea that he could topple an empire at this rate.”

“He’s my Helen of Troy,” Eliot agreed with an impassive shrug. But that made Margo screw her lips up to her nose.

“Jesus,” she said, before sticking her finger down her throat and making a gagging sound. “If I had a spray bottle, I’d spray you in the face for that. With acid.”

Bitch.

He loved her.

“Okay,” Margo continued, finally standing up on wobbly legs to lean against him. He snaked his arm around her shoulders to pull her in close. “So I think I get why you _ think _ you need to do all this, even though my point still stands in bold and underlined. But I don’t get why it needs to be sequential.”

“Ease me into it,” Eliot admitted, kissing the crown of her head. “Also, I can’t talk to Alice until… point number three, at the very least.”

That goddamn _ Ugh _, staring at him like the pirate’s black spot. He wasn’t sure if he would survive it. But he also wasn’t sure that he could do any of it without facing it head on.

Didn’t mean the idea alone didn’t fill him with abject nausea.

“Right,” Margo said quietly and didn’t push it more. “But why not call Q right away, while you’re doing all this? So then he at least _ knows _ that you’re—“

Eliot squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

He felt her hand lightly smack his chest. “He’s going to think you got this _ fucking letter _from him and all he got back was radio silence. That sends a message, El.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, licking his lips. He cracked his neck. “Exactly. It’s the message I want to send.”

It was true. It was the only thing he could do. It was what he needed to do, as much as it slowly unraveled all his organs and made him feel like they were withering away into ash. But the path forward was clear, as much as Eliot fucking hated it and wanted to race to the finish line. As much as he _ really _wanted to cut across the path and find the shortcut, damn the consequences. He couldn’t do that though. He wouldn’t do that. Not again.

So resolved as ever, Eliot looked down at her and shrugged, like he had said enough. He knew he hadn’t though, not for Margo.

“Are _ you _ high?” She smacked him again, sharper than before. “That’s your cowardice talking.”

Eliot kept his breath steady, slowly inhaling and straightening his posture. “That’s not it.”

“Sweetie, I love you,” Margo said, because they were saying that more now, “but it’s your characteristic move. You twist your brain into taking the destructive path, convincing yourself it’s the right one. This is how you hurt people.”

“Yeah, I know. I know I’ve done that a lot,” Eliot said, hanging his head. God, the shame of that would eat him alive forever. “But that’s not what’s happening.”

Obviously, Margo wasn’t convinced. She twisted her lips and glared up at him, sour and disbelieving. “Oh, yeah? Then what is?”

Eliot stared at the word **Quentin** on the chalkboard, surrounded in asterisks and, yeah, maybe one drawn heart. Because that was the word that mattered. _ Quentin _ was what mattered. And it meant he was going to do this right, even if it fucking killed him in the meantime. It meant he couldn’t just do whatever the fuck _ Eliot _ wanted to do because _ Eliot _ doing whatever _ Eliot _ wanted had never led to anything good.

He needed to be selfless. Really selfless. For once.

“I am done not giving Quentin what he wants,” Eliot said, firm and meeting her eyes full on. “I can’t live like that anymore. The only thing I know is that I will spend the rest of my life making my shit up to him and this is how I have to start.”

“El, you know he wants _ you _, right?” Margo said, affectionately rubbing her chin into his chest. “The letter was pretty clearly a last ditch effort in disguise.”

“It wasn’t,” Eliot said, swallowing. He sniffed. “That’s not who he is, Margo. Yeah, he wants or _ wanted _ me, that’s—I’m not saying you’re wrong. But Quentin meant every word in that letter, which is why I have to keep my distance for now.”

Realization dawned on Margo and she made a soft scoffing sound, crossing her arms. “What, because he said—?”

“Q wants space from me and I don’t blame him,” Eliot said, shaky yet emphatic to his bones. His jaw trembled and his heart thudded painfully, but he had to be strong. “You think I didn’t want to fucking run to him the second I read all that? But I have to be more than my impulses. He was clear about what he needed from me.”

“He doesn’t have all the information,” Margo argued, ever the pragmatist. “I think his tune would change if he knew you were in love with him and want to be with him, El. He thinks you’re not and you don’t.”

“Be that as it may,” Eliot said, nerves thrumming and voice hoarse. He let out a sharp breath, trying with all his might not to remember the last time he said that, how it had led to Quentin’s lips on his neck, his hands on his body. Fuck.

_ Fuck. _

But he was better than this now. Or he was trying to be. He had to try.

So Eliot shook it off, closed his eyes and cleared his throat, looking her in the eyes again. “Listening to him and respecting his wishes is the least I can do at this point, okay?”

A tiny foot stomped on the ground, Veruca Salt in a slinky red dress. “Come the fuck on, he doesn’t _ really _ want—“

“Margo, that’s part of the thought process that got me here,” Eliot said, with finality, without any room for argument. “I have to take him at his word. I have to trust that he knows what he needs. I have to do this right.”

Bambi stared at him for the longest beat, before puffing her chest and letting it fall. He smiled, seeing it as the subtle sign of surrender he knew it was. Eliot hugged her again and kissed her head, a silent offering of gratitude. Of course, Margo grumbled under her breath and elbowed him, but she didn’t fight him further.

“I still think you’re being stupid,” she said turning her face almost into his armpit. She poked his side, hitting a ticklish spot only she knew about and she grinned when he squeaked, entirely unbecoming. “But you have to do it the way that feels coherent to you, I guess.”

“Thank you for your unwavering support, Bambi,” Eliot said, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

“For the record, it’s _ literally _ only coherent to you,” Margo said with a quick shake of her head. Then she pointed upward at his list, face curling into something truly disgusted. “Especially since you’re apparently starting your whole apology tour—“

“Quest,” Eliot corrected. Margo rolled her eyes.

“Since you’re starting your ‘quest,’” Bambi said with rude air quotes, nose sneering as she stared down the board, “with _ Fucking _—”

* * *

**1\. Todd**

* * *

It was one hour after his planning session with Margo.

It was December 22nd.

It was five days since Eliot had last seen Quentin.

Which meant it was officially the longest Eliot had ever gone without seeing Quentin. 

So in light of that fact, Eliot was sure his shaking hands and the quick stuttering of his heart had to do with how much he fucking missed Quentin, far more than anything else. 

Because—

There was no way _ Eliot _ was _ nervous _ about talking to _ Todd _, of all people. 

Because Todd didn’t make people nervous. 

Todd especially didn’t make Eliot nervous.

It had been distaste at first sight in first year P.A., where Todd had been his most incompetent classmate. Todd was eager to answer every question, yet embarrassed himself with every demo, seemingly incapable of even the simplest spells. Normally, Eliot would have felt a mere passing pity and never given it a second thought. Maybe mocked them with Margo a little, at most. 

But Todd—

Todd had been a gnat of an annoying color, because he had full body _ clung _ to Eliot from the first time they interacted and never quite let go.

He was assigned as a Physical Kid, which seemed accurate now but had been a head-scratcher at the time. Again, because Todd barely showed any aptitude for any magic, let alone a specific discipline. But it was what it was, and after they all settled into the Cottage, it seemed like Todd was just always _ there _ . Watching Eliot make the Signature Cocktail. Talking nonstop to Eliot about his interests or his family, even when Eliot had telegraphed in no uncertain terms that he did not give a shit. Even when Eliot _ explicitly told him _ that he did not give a shit.

Then Todd started wearing vests.

He tried to get invited to Encanto Oculto. He laughed far too loudly. He had the audacity to care about things, well before Eliot had opened his own heart. Todd wanted every single person in the world to like him, at the expense of his own sense of self. He especially wanted Eliot to like him, prostrating at his feet and sacrificing his soul for the smallest chance at approval. And Eliot _ punished _him for it, in every way possible, from the start.

Thus, Todd Bates had gotten caught up in the worst of Eliot Waugh.

In some ways, the ease of that casual cruelty was where the story began. It was emblematic of all the ways Eliot wasn’t a nice person. And maybe he’d never really be a nice person. But for the first time in his life, Eliot actually wanted to be a _ good _ one.

So he had to swallow his pride and start there, walking toward Todd at the Cottage bar, with the intention of engaging instead of angrily shooing away. Which, admittedly, took a lot of swallowing. 

But Eliot was a pro at that.

In any case, Todd didn’t notice him right away.

He was bent over two martini glasses, staring at their dark brown color with a big frown. Eliot bit the inside of his cheek when he noticed Todd was wearing a green polo and a bright red Santa hat, with magically grown reindeer antlers. He also wore a colorful apron with a hip-hop style horse drawn carriage in the middle… and the words _ Tricked Out Ol’ St. Nick _ written across the top.

In the past, Eliot would have stared Todd cold in the eyes and pointed upstairs.And Todd would have immediately known what it meant. He would have done the slow, slumped Charlie Brown march to his room and Eliot would have patted himself on the back and forgotten all about it, a job well done. But Todd probably never forgot any of it. Really, he was just trying to have some goddamn fun.

Who the fuck was Eliot to kick that in the crotch? He was such a hypocrite.

Self-flagellation never solved a damn thing though, so Eliot refocused and rapped his hand on the table, speaking aloud this time.

“Hey—Todd,” he said, only fumbling a little, with a small and weak smile. “How’s it going?”

With a flash of bald shock, Todd froze, big eyes glued on Eliot’s face. His lashes fluttered up and down though he were mid-seizure.

“Eliot. Hi,” Todd said, crossing his arms again, this time right over the words on his apron. He kept sliding his forearms around, trying to hide the saying with growing desperation. “I mean, hello. I mean, howdy. I mean, what brings you to my company? I mean—”

“Power down, Todd,” Eliot said, holding his hands up. “I come in peace.”

Todd fell into one of his most obnoxious laughing fits.

“That’s funny,” he said, shaking his head over and over again, still laughing. “Like I’m a robot and you’re an alien. Classic.”

Eliot’s tongue was going to be minced by the end of this conversation. “Sure.”

“_ Take me to your leader _ ,” Todd said in a nasal monotone, stiltedly dancing with his arms straight out from his bent elbows. “ _ Phone home _.”

The Lord was testing him. Forty days in the desert ain’t shit.

Eliot took a deep breath, right from damn diaphragm. He could do this. He could do hard things. It was another area of expertise.

“Ah, look, I wanted to have a quick—” Eliot said quickly, trying to keep on message. But the two drinks in front of him were far too distracting and he couldn’t help but point downward. “Okay, what the hell is this?”

From further away, the dark brown had looked like the beginning of a mudslide or something. But up close, it was—

Well, it looked like a dog shit smoothie.

They were complete with giant chunks of pineapple and a few sprigs of flat-leaf parsley still attached to the stem, floating in a bubbling brew. Because, oh yeah, it was also bubbling and steaming, likely hot to the touch. 

It was a dog shit smoothie stew.

Eliot hoped the Lord took note of how he _ didn’t _say exactly that to Todd. Instead, he quirked his eyebrows together and frowned a little, waiting for whatever inane explanation he was sure he was about to get.

(He also didn’t say that.)

Todd sighed, throwing a hand up on his own lesser curls. “It’s for Christmas, for my family. It’s a cocktail.”

“Is it?” Eliot asked, voice remarkably even.

“It’s not totally coming out how I wanted,” Todd said, pinching his lips to the side and looking defeated. “I wanted to capture the spirit of the people I care most about, but it’s kind of—I don’t know.”

There was something achingly familiar about that and Eliot swallowed around the lump in his throat. He made his way around the table, staring down with more sincerity than he ever thought he could manage when it came to Todd.

“Would you like some help?” 

The question came out gently, like Eliot was talking to someone else. That probably helped his case, even if it was a touch disingenuous. Rome wasn’t built in a day.

But Todd’s eyes went shuttered, glancing away. “Why do you want to help me?”

Fair fucking question, Bates.

“Call it a gesture of belated goodwill,” Eliot said, putting his hands behind his back and shrugging. Todd’s eyes flitted back to him, skittish as a stray kitten.

He narrowed them, like he cracked the case. “Is this a prank?”

What the fuck?

“A prank? I’ve never done a _ prank _ in my—” Eliot bit his lip and cracked his neck, trying his damned hardest not to get too indignant. Except that _ Margo _ did pranks, _ Eliot _ hazed, and fucking _ everyone _ knew that—

He took a breath.

This was all his fault, not Todd’s. 

His fault, not Todd’s. 

“No,” Eliot said, cracking a forced smile. “I’m trying to be nice to you, Todd.”

Todd’s mouth fell open and he staggered back on his heels. “Whoa.”

Yeah, fine.

Eliot took another sharp breath through his nostrils and made his decision. Quests were supposed to be hard, Quentin always said. This was proof of that. So he wrapped his hand around the glass stem and lifted the drink to his lips, glancing down at Todd as he did.

“May I?”

“Yeah. I mean, sure,” Todd squeaked. “I mean, if you want. I mean—”

Eliot offered a small smile over the rim. “Todd.”

“It’s not my best work,” Todd said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and kicking the ground. “Consider that your fair warning.”

Running his tongue over his teeth and hoping to high motherfucking heaven that all this would be worth it in the end, Eliot touched his lips to the cool glass and closed his eyes, steeling himself.

Bottom’s up.

The thick concoction didn’t pass through his lips, warm and stinky and far too sweet. So Eliot opened his mouth wider, taking in a large gulp. 

It swirled around his tongue in a series of dissonant flavors and textures, like cinnamon vomit and beef bourguignon and a pina colada all at once. Eliot’s neck jerked out once in a gag, but otherwise he let the drink slide down into his gut, ensuring he wouldn’t be eating again for the rest of the day.

Eliot wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shuddered. “Todd, what exactly is in this?”

“Well, it’s a Christmas drink,” Todd said, a dubious start. “So it’s warmed red wine and dark rum with mulling spices, essence of sweet peppermint, a snow scent charm, and a dash of unsweetened cocoa powder.”

That actually sounded decent. But. “—And what else?”

“Well, see, my mom really loves Simon and Garfunkel,” Todd said, and yeah, he saw where this was going. “So I also added heaps of parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme.”

“Oh boy,” Eliot said, with a sharp little smile. The Lord was fucking _ testing _ him.

“Then I remembered that my sister is always, like, _ Damn, I wish we were in Hawaii _, as a really hilarious joke, because we’re from Maine,” Todd said, looking appropriately ashamed at this point. “So I put in some cream of coconut and pineapple chunks—“

Eliot’s hands covered his face before he could stop them. “Todd.”

“I don’t think it totally goes together,” a sad little voice confirmed and Eliot slid his fingers down his cheeks. He cast his eyes back over to Todd’s hung head and braved a quick pat on his back, which made Todd jump and stare over at him.

“Alright, let’s start over again, okay?” Eliot reached behind him and grabbed a bottle of wine, uncorking it. “I think your heart is in the right place but this—this is garbage, Todd.”

“Right.”

“It belongs in the garbage can.”

“Definitely.”

“It might even require hazardous waste disposal.”

Todd tilted his head and frowned. “Is this you being nice to me?”

Eliot clacked his teeth shut. Shit.

With a quick remorseful glance over, Eliot refocused and moved his hands in a series of quick movements and the glasses shined, clean and empty. Then he poured wine and the rum, gently warming the combination with a subtle tut.

“Sorry,” Eliot conceded quietly. But he continued to focus on the project at hand, always the easiest place to put his energy. “Listen, I get that your people pleasing knows no bounds. Which is—nice, in its own way. But you need to rein it in. Less is more, and you were almost there.”

“Right,” Todd said, head still bobbing in that goddamn nod of his. He scrunched his face. “What does that mean?”

“It means the first part of the cocktail?” Eliot glanced over his shoulder and gave him a smile. “That actually sounded pretty good.”

“Really?” Todd breathed the word out, in shock.

“Yes,” Eliot said, before tapping a finger to his chin. “Well, except the cocoa. I’d recommend mole bitters instead.”

It would impart the same hit of unsweetened chocolate flavor, but with a touch of spice and a naturally warming sensation, without more magic. Better not to inundate drinks with too much magic, when serving them to the muggles.

But Todd was still stuck in wide-eyed fervor on the praise. “You really think it would be a good cocktail?”

“Not mind-blowing or anything, but crowd pleasing enough that your family would like it,” Eliot said, methodically adding the charm and bitters at once. “But most importantly, they’ll appreciate the effort, even if it’s not perfectly tailored to each of their interests.”

Eliot capped it off with the peppermint essence and held the glasses aloft. He handed one to Todd, toasting him with a quick sip. As expected, it was pretty good.

“My mom expects things to be tailored to her interests,” Todd said, after taking a sip and smiling way too big with a giant thumbs up. He was a dork. Whatever. “Like, all the time. I want to make sure she’s happy with it too because she is my best friend in the world.”

Eliot was certain that was technically a sweet thing to say.

“Okay, then just do a quick preference charm and it’ll subtly taste like whatever she likes best,” he suggested with a shrug. He put the cocktail to the side and took a deep breath. Eliot was trying to drink less and he didn’t need the temptation.

(It sucked.)

“Seriously?” Todd’s jaw dropped. “That’s a real spell I can do?”

“_ Yeah _, Todd, it’s one of the first things we learned in—” Eliot’s eyes were slit in incredulity, but he caught himself, fist to his lips. He forced a big smile. “You know what, I’ll teach it to you, okay?”

As Eliot called over a pen, Todd turned away, busying himself with cleaning up the remnants of his original disaster. His shoulders were hunched and the muscles on the back of his neck were tensed and hard.

“You don’t have to do that,” Todd said, his voice soft.

Eliot shrugged, more to himself. He flipped open a notebook, trying to remember the equation to set the circumstance. It had been awhile. “I don’t mind.”

But Todd’s hand splayed over the notebook and Eliot caught his eyes, guarded and small.

“I know this is about last weekend,” Todd said, with a short shake of his head. “I don’t need your pity, Eliot.”

That was the first thing Todd had ever said that Eliot respected without qualifiers. So he matched that respect with honesty.

“Not pity,” Eliot said, making sure his voice sounded as sincere as he felt. “Gesture of goodwill, okay?”

Todd’s face fell, jumping right the fuck into it. “Do you really hate me?"

“No,” Eliot said, turning back to the page. He drew several concentric circles and then an indication of Popper 18. It was supposed to transition into the McCabe theorem next, he thought, but—

But he could still feel Todd’s eyes on his temple.

“Really?”

Eliot put the pen down and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“If I ever did, it’s because of my bullshit. You’re a nice guy,” Eliot said, his head thudding with a dull pain. “Or, well, you seem like one. I don’t actually know you. You might be a psychopath.”

“I don’t _ think _ ,” Todd said, cocking his head with wide and unfocused eyes, “that I’m a _ psychopath _. I hope I’m not.”

That cracked a smile on Eliot’s face and he rolled his eyes. Still, his fingers itched to keep writing, to turn away. Which probably meant that he shouldn’t. So instead, he put his hand on Todd’s shoulder—just a gentle touch—and looked him right in the eye.

“No, I don’t think you are. But I _ don’t _ know you and that’s my fault,” he said, with a sad smile and a squeeze of Todd’s shoulder, warmer than before. “I’ve been an asshole since we met and I’m—sorry, Todd.”

Eliot wasn’t sure what it said about him that he had kind of expected Todd to leap for joy and kiss his rings. 

Nothing good.

“Huh,” Todd said, eyebrows pinching. He smiled, but it was muted. “Honestly, that’s way more than I ever thought I’d get from you.”

“Predictability isn’t my forte,” Eliot said, finally giving into his deep desire to hide and turning back to the notebook. At least, until a burst of protectiveness flushed over him and he snapped his head back up. “And hey, I don’t know if he got a chance to talk to you, but I promise Quentin wasn’t trying to—”

Todd cut him off with a shake of his hands, smile widening into its usual cheerfulness.

“No, I know. He actually wrote me a nice letter,” he said, before he snorted. “Like, a _ really _nice letter.”

That hit Eliot right in the chest. He smiled and tried to keep it tempered. Under control. But he was getting worse every day, it seemed. He didn’t feel in control at all. He hated it. He loved it.

“Of course he did,” Eliot said, faking an eye roll over his thundering, happy heart. The smile broke open and he let out an involuntary laugh, almost a yipping sound. Only weeks ago, it would have mortified him. 

“I mean, a really, really nice letter,” Todd said, wincing slightly. “Like, sorta _ Calm down, buddy _kinda nice?”

Eliot felt like his teeth were glowing with his smile. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“He wrote that I have _ the biggest and most open heart _ at Brakebills,” Todd said, leaning in conspiratorially, “and that he hopes someday I can _ somehow _ forgive him for his _ unforgivable callousness _.”

God, his cheeks hurt with his fucking smile, reaching never before touched heights on his face. Eliot dipped his head, laughing as he kept writing, so he didn’t float away. “Jesus.”

“Right?” Todd said, waggling his eyebrows in Eliot’s periphery. “I wanna be like, dude, we were blitzed, it’s cool.”

Eliot twinkled his eyes up, all mischief. “You should write that back to him, on formal stationary.”

Todd laughed, loud and genuine. “I’ll learn calligraphy.”

“Now you’re talking.”

Exchanging grins in that rare moment, Eliot surprised himself with the world’s tiniest rush of affection toward Todd. Once he calmed the hell down a bit, he wasn’t so bad. Credit where credit was due.

(Don’t tell Bambi.)

Conversation lulling, Eliot worked in silence, jotting down the current phase of the moon and doing a quick calculation for his spot at the bar in relation to the magical properties of Woof Fountain. Meanwhile, Todd finished cleaning, wiping down the makeshift counter with surprising care. And for some reason, his gentle and methodical treatment of a space Eliot usually wouldn’t let him anywhere near sent the punch right to his gut.

There was one more thing.

Eliot scratched the back of his neck, out of nerves more than anything. He closed his eyes and his fingers twitched, pushing back the memory so it wouldn’t paralyze him out of speech.

“I also wanted to thank you,” Eliot said quietly, not looking up from the spell. It was finished, but he couldn’t look up. Not for this. “For binding my hands that day.”

Todd paused, breath a little more shallow. “Yeah. I kind of had to. You were—”

“I know,” Eliot said, still focusing on a small inkblot so he could find his words. “But it still took guts and quick thinking. I know I’ve never acted like it, but I’m glad you were there. I’m sorry if I ever—”

“You were basically out of your mind, Eliot,” Todd said gently and his hand came into vision, moving over the notebook to grab his attention. Eliot braved a glance up and the sympathy on Todd’s face was—

Well, it was tough to take.

Eliot hadn’t changed that much. Wouldn’t change that much. But he forced his eyes steady, as much as he wanted to snarl and bite away.

“I’m just glad Quentin was okay,” Todd said, with a soft shrug. “Nothing else really matters, right?”

Eliot’s throat clenched in on itself and he breathed down his screaming sob. But he offered a tiny smile and nodded.

“Right,” Eliot said, hoarse. Todd opened his mouth like he was going to say something else. But perhaps he was more socially astute than Eliot had ever given him any fucking credit for, because he closed it.

But then Todd opened it again and Eliot’s head hurt.

“I do admire you a lot, though. I think you’re talented and smart and you throw great parties, and I’ve always envied how much attention you give your friends,” Todd said, surprising him again. He twitched his lips into a frown before fluttering those huge eyes at him, googly and sincere. “Sorry if I was ever, like, overzealous.”

That made Eliot’s heart hurt.

He really had been such a massive asshole. A total dick. To everyone. Quentin was right. No surprise, but still. Quentin was very right.

“You don’t have to be sorry for anything, Todd,” Eliot said, standing up and flattening the paper under his hand. He met Todd’s eyes again and inclined his head, a gesture of respect and remorse. “Again, I was the asshole, not you. Really.”

Todd furrowed his brow and nodded, more accepting than Eliot deserved. “Well, thanks.”

Eliot clapped his hands and tapped one finger on his gorgeous handwriting.

“Here’s the spell,” Eliot said to Todd, who craned his neck to get a better look. “So let’s redo the drink once more so we can test it out. Grab me a good bottle of wine.”

“Aye, aye,” Todd said with a dorky little salute. Eliot rolled his eyes as he started pouring into fresh glasses and stretching his fingers out in preparation for the spell.

But then Todd bounced excitedly on his feet and bit his lip. “So, like, does this mean I can start going by Elliot again now again?”

“Don’t push it, Todd.”

* * *

**2\. Idri**

* * *

One day later, Eliot stepped out of a portal into a large lobby, built tall in sleek marbles and chrome. His hands shook with another uncommon nervousness, more easily pinpointed. It was probably due to his proximity to—well, the parts of his life he had left behind. But the building he was in was tall and stunning and completely hidden from most eyes. It gave him comfort and a sense of security.

Because it was about as far removed from Whiteland, Indiana as one could get, even less than two hours away.

In truth, from what Eliot could see of Cincinnati, it seemed like a nice enough city. That is, for people who had to be in the goddamn Midwest for whatever fucking reason. But there were worse options. He could even admit that it wasn’t—a complete eyesore. 

That was saying something, right?

He was basically a man of the people now.

The elevator doors behind Eliot pinged once and he stepped out onto the highest floor. He flashed a quick visitor’s badge at the very attractive man behind the front desk (along with a quick smile too because he was in love, not dead) and then knocked on the elaborate carved wooden door. 

Beside his knuckles was a golden nameplate that read, ** _Idri King, SVP of Hospitality / Honored Elder Liaison_ **.

Eliot had been able to secure an appointment by calling Idri directly and speaking with his assistant. But this was the first time he had seen his full name. And, well—

Huh.

Apparently, Idri’s Encanto Oculto nickname was a play on his _ actual _name, not necessarily an homage to his perceived place of power. Eliot frowned, shaking his head to adjust to the new information.

How fucking corny.

Still, Eliot was there to make nice, keep a new friend in his life, and also disengage from something that had hurt Quentin, whether Eliot had ever meant it or not. Idri had always made his intentions with Eliot clear—and the speed at which Idri had approved the last minute appointment proved that it was _ still _ clear—and the right thing to do was to put it all behind them. He wanted them to start fresh as friends, networkers, and fellow revelers, even if Eliot’s reveling was going to take a slight detour in intensity.

As soon as his hand left the wood, the door swung open and a wave of warmth fell out through the open entryway. Eliot was overwhelmed by the scent of cedar and sandalwood, with a rush of what he could only describe as _ good cheer _ levying his spirits all at once. He smiled to himself—Idri was indeed excellent at what he did.

Stepping further onto the bright green carpet that stretched the corner office, Eliot spun around once and took in the splendor. A roaring fireplace popped and cracked happily next to a beautifully art deco seating area, and the floor to ceiling windows looked out over a seemingly endless view of buildings and a lovely green bridge. And most impressive, a giant desk—more a throne—sat right in the center of the room, imposing as its occupant, who was typing quickly and smoothly behind a large monitor.

It was every bit the wet dream kind of office that Eliot didn’t think actually existed outside of 90s law firm television shows. It was also the kind of place that, once upon a time, Eliot would have wanted to fuck Idri all over, on every available surface, until the place smelled as much like sex as it did the incredible armotherapy magic he clearly invested in.

Shit changed though.

Working without a single break in concentration, Idri raised a single finger in the air as a quick acknowledgement of Eliot’s presence. Clicking his hands down on the keyboard with a hum, Idri dragged his warm eyes up and his whole face brightened, pleased and polite as ever.

His enthusiasm made Eliot feel like a huge jerk, but that was kind of the point of the whole quest, right?

Idri didn’t seem to notice though, because he stood and held his arms out, wide as his smile.

“Eliot!” His laugh filled the room and he embraced Eliot like they had parted on excellent terms. Which was weird, but horse mouths were disgusting. Wouldn’t want to look at one. Even Alice would agree.

“I was both surprised and pleased at your meeting request,” Idri continued, otherwise wordlessly ushering them to the seating area and pouring two glasses of scotch without asking. Eliot’s stomach turned but he accepted it graciously. “I actually had plans to reach out to you after the holidays, but you preempted me. Quite convenient.”

“It’s good to see you too, Idri,” Eliot said softly. They toasted and he took a cursory sip, letting it burn down. He stretched his mouth into a rueful smile and sighed. “I wish it were under better circumstances.”

Idri’s eyes fell into genuine concern over his liquor. “Is everything alright?”

… That was a loaded question.

Eliot traced his finger along the rim of the crystal glass—it was a Baccarat, holy shit—and stared at the dancing flames for a few heavy beats. Then he cleared his throat and faced Idri head on, just as he did with Todd. He reminded himself that Idri was closer to a friend than a foe, even more than Todd was.

So it would be fine.

“I am horrifically embarrassed about how our last meeting ended,” Eliot said, leaning forward on his knees. “I wanted to apologize in person.”

To his surprise, Idri laughed, that familiar booming sound. It lacked even an ounce of derision. He smiled at Eliot and waved him off, taking another languous sip of his whiskey before shaking his head.

“Don’t think on it, Eliot. Emotions run high, especially with magical liquor and drugs,” Idri said, ever the party professional. “It’s the way. Part of the territory.”

Obviously, Eliot knew that was true, likely better than anyone. But still, it hadn’t even occurred to him to make sure that Idri had gotten off—er, _ made his way _ back to the portals alright. Basic courtesy after a shitshow.

“Indeed, but I should have spoken with you after,” Eliot said, still finding his language much more naturally formal around Idri than anyone else. He didn’t mind it. “I was preoccupied and that was inexcusable. I enjoy your friendship and I know I didn’t act like much of a friend.”

“Well, I assumed you were speaking with Quentin,” Idri said, astutely. “Smoothing things over.”

“Something like that,” Eliot said instead, shaking his head with a performative wince. “Sorry you got caught in it. Quentin’s not—”

“Particularly fond of me,” Idri said with a wry grin, clinking his glass down on a marble coaster. He spoke with finality and no bitterness.

Regardless, Eliot felt the overwhelming need to socially hedge.

“No, what?” His voice was way too high pitched to pull it off. So Eliot tried sputtering his lips, as though that was _ Absurd! _ before studiously avoiding Idri’s gaze. “No, no, Quentin likes you fine. He thinks you’re—great.”

But Idri laughed again and turned his whole body toward Eliot, projecting power with every tilt of his head.

“By that I’m sure you mean he can’t stand me,” he said, squaring his shoulders and leaning in, almost conspiratorial. “I am certain your friend is many things, but _ mysterious _ does not seem to be one of them.”

“No,” Eliot said, fondness seeping in unintentionally. He sighed and crossed his legs, resting his chin on his knuckles. “No, I guess he’s not.”

Then Idri’s expression went soft, possibly even slightly wary. “Well, I do hope his distaste changes, as you and I move forward. I can tell he’s dear to you.”

One way to put it.

Eliot’s heart caught against his ribcage, pressing painfully between two bones. He took one long deep breath, setting it back in place. He folded his hands on his lap and closed his eyes, before looking over at Idri with as much sympathy as he could muster.

This was the part that was really going to suck. Eliot had never once _ enjoyed _breaking hearts.

(Don’t fact check that.)

He stretched his fingers once and swallowed. “Ah, that’s—that’s the other thing.”

“There’s another thing?” Idri asked, eyes twitching in thoughtfulness. In response, Eliot reached his hand out and placed it gingerly on Idri’s knee. It made the Encanto King’s eyebrows raise, though he said nothing more.

“Before I begin, I want to say that you seem like a wonderful man and you’re certainly very attractive,” Eliot said, kindly. “But I have to tell you that—“

In a flash, Idri held his hand up in the air.

“Okay,” he said, clearly schooling his face into neutrality. It broke slightly, with a breathy chuckle, as he plucked Eliot’s hand off from his knee. “I’m going to stop you right there, Eliot.”

Shit. Eliot’s heart sunk in guilt and he scooted up on the chair. “Idri, I really am sor—”

“Allow me to clarify,” Idri said, cutting him off again. His voice was sterner now. “Did you make an appointment at my place of business in order to sexually reject me?”

Um.

Eliot’s throat went dry.

He choked out a small sound and his eyes found their way to the ceiling, the back of his neck burning. “I mean, when you put it like that…”

Idri didn’t cut him off and Eliot had nothing more to say. So he swallowed and nodded.

He could feel Idri’s sharp eyes stay on him for another moment before the King sighed, leaning back in his seat with all the elegance of a ballet. He ran his hands down his face to reveal an annoyed smile.

“This is at least partially my fault,” Idri said, making Eliot do a double take. “I haven’t been as forthcoming as I perhaps should have been. But I needed to see you in your natural environment.”

What the fuck?

Eliot frowned. “My natural environment—?”

Idri stood from his chair to face the fire with his hands behind his back. He angled his gorgeous face over his shoulder, studying Eliot intently.

“I needed to see how you operate,” Idri said, like that explained anything. “Get a sense of how you approach things, without the fire fuel pressure can bring.”

“What?” Eliot didn’t bother to hide his deep confusion, in his voice or face or body language. He was tired. It had been a long week.

“You were auditioning for me,” Idri said with a sigh, just on the other side of exasperated. “But I didn’t tell you, in order to get your truest performance.”

Nope. Still nothing. “Auditioning for—what?”

Idri briefly closed his eyes and then smiled, eyes on the fire. “Eliot, I’m more interested in hiring you than anything else. That’s what I’m trying to communicate."

The colors in the room shifted like puzzle pieces, locking together. Eliot blinked, thinking back on all his interactions with Idri.

It was—

Well, it wasn’t _ totally _ crazy.

Idri’s excitement about the grad school party made more sense, suddenly. His hyperfocus on Eliot’s details. The way he never took his eyes off him while he was working, but seemed more reserved during actual conversations.

But still. What the fuck?

“Wait,” Eliot said, shaking his head, recalibrating. “Wait, you wanted to—a job?”

Idri pointed behind him toward his computer. “I’m working on your offer package as we speak.”

No, no, no.

Eliot wasn’t _ that _ cocky.

… Okay, he was very cocky.

But Eliot also had a pretty damn good radar on when someone was interested (like, you know, _ most of the time _, disregarding a certain major exception) and there was no fucking way Idri hadn’t been interested.

“But I thought you were—” Eliot said, frustrated at his own ineloquence. But what the fuck? “I thought this was more of a—”

“Yes, I was interested in bedding you originally,” Idri said matter-of-factly and, well, at least Eliot wasn’t completely losing his mind. To prove the point, Idri looked him up and down, lasciviously. “You’re also very attractive, as I suspect you’re aware.”

“Not to toot my own horn,” Eliot said, with a ghost of his usual bravado, “but I do okay.”

Idri spun around and gave him a smile, more patronizing than kind.

“You are a very handsome, very charming, and very, _ very _ young man,” Idri said, with an inward laugh. “Once I realized that, I shifted my focus.”

Biting defensiveness coiled around Eliot’s gut and he sucked his lower lip between his teeth.

“All of those traits are culturally positive ones,” he said, still a piece of shit. But Idri commanded a room with a tiny tick of his brow and Eliot immediately sobered and surrendered. “So, um, okay. Ah, so did I just blow my chance at that job then? By—uh, coming here?”

If Eliot had known this was an interview, he would have approached the conversation differently. To put it _ fucking mildly _. And Idri must have realized that because he stared down at Eliot from over his nostrils, arms crossing imposing over his broad chest.

Without missing a dignified beat, Idri reiterated the point of contention. “You made an appointment during my working hours to inform me that you don’t want to have sex with me.”

Eliot winced for real. “Right, that’s what I mean.”

He knew wasn’t a great look. Idri also knew it wasn’t a great look. He stood there, silhouetted by the fire, brown eyes as calculating as they were usually warm. But then he snorted, face breaking out into one of his wide grins.

“Lucky for you,” Idri said, stepping forward to put a friendly hand on Eliot’s shoulder, “that kind of sheer arrogant audacity is actually something I look for in my hires.”

Eliot let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He hadn’t realized that he would be invested in the opportunity. He hadn’t know there _ was _an opportunity to be invested in. But now that it was dangling in front of him, he really didn’t want to fuck it up. Options were good, right? Especially the option to do shit he actually cared about.

But because Eliot had self-destructive tendencies, he couldn’t help but say, “That seems like an odd policy.”

Idri smirked, a small half-grin. “I look for Magicians who will stop at nothing to show others a good time, juxtaposed with flawless competence, thriving curiosity, and disciplined organizational skills. But I also find the best candidates have maybe a certain—“

“_ Je ne sais quoi _?” Eliot guessed through his smiling teeth, hopeful.

“—lack of good sense, I was going to say,” Idri said, narrowing his eyes over his amusement. “A touch of chaos propelling their dazzle. Needed for a truly special party. As long as it can be tempered professionally, it’s a good thing. I think you’re capable.”

A qualified compliment if Eliot had ever heard one, but it was better than getting thrown out on his ass. Which would have been the case in almost every other probability iteration of this scenario.

“In that case,” Eliot said with a deep breath and a bow of his head. “Thank you, I think.”

“Yes, a compliment,” Idri said, picking up his scotch again and sipping. “In this context.”

“Right.”

“Because when it comes to personal matters, Eliot,” Idri said, swirling the drink around his mouth and swallowing with a gasp, “I like you well enough, but I also find you incredibly fucking exhausting.”

“That’s a fair analysis,” Eliot said quickly. It was. Spade equals spade.

Idri rolled his eyes and sat back down, leveling Eliot with a sharply amused stare. “You’re perhaps only outmatched by your Quentin, in terms of being a human energy vortex.”

His chest lit up like a circuit board at someone referring to Q as _ his _, regardless of the context. His Q. His Quentin. His jealous little grump. It had a ring to it. So Eliot smiled down into his lap and shook his head.

“Oh. He’s not—we aren’t—I mean,” he said with a small laugh, “I’m not sure if we’ll be—_ my _ Quentin—“

“I stand corrected,” Idri said, deadpan. “In an instant, I feel as though I’ve sipped dry a whole bottle of NyQuil.”

Yeah, he heard it.

“I’m sorry for letting our interpersonal drama loose on you,” Eliot said, meeting Idri’s eyes. “That wasn’t right.”

“It wasn’t,” Idri agreed, but he was smiling kindly. “But I understand how these things can happen. I hope it works out for you.”

Eliot offered a brief smile over the quick squeeze of dread in his stomach. “Yeah, me too.”

Idri nodded and the subject changed by his command.

“Anyway, the job will put you in charge of a small group of elite planners, who excel at particular elements of magic and nothing else,” Idri said with a swift look of private vexation. “You’ll be herding cats and providing telekinetic support as needed. But it’s mostly event management at the highest echelons of what we do. How does that sound to you?”

“That sounds—” Eliot’s heart pounded, the cruelest part of his brain taunting him with, _ You don’t deserve it you’re gonna fail say no and get the fuck out now before you fuck it all up _ “—that sounds like exactly what I would want, Idri.”

He was trying to be braver. Like his Q.

But.

Eliot sniffed and swallowed. “But—”

Idri pursed his lips. “What’s your concern?”

“I don’t know that I can live in Cincinnati,” Eliot said, aiming for some form of honesty. “I’m not sure I’m cut out for living in the midwest.”

“Eliot,” Idri said with a grin. “I can live anywhere I want. I live in Cincinnati by choice.”

Eliot felt his nose scrunched up before he could stop it. “Like, on purpose?”

“My family is in Ohio,” Idri said as an easy explanation. Then he dropped two atom bombs. “My wife. My son.”

Eliot’s fingers were frozen on his knees and his tongue was too big for his mouth. 

“You have a _ wife— _ “ he squeaked, verging on hysteria “—and _ son _?”

What the fuck, what the fuck, _ what the fuck _?

Idri waved him off again, big hand flying in the air. The only part of Eliot that could move were his eyes, tracking every motion. He blinked rapidly, waiting for whatever fucking explanation could come from that bullshit.

“It’s all above board. My wife and I were separated when you and I met,” Idri said and Eliot blinked again, hard and fast. “We’re actually renewing our vows over New Year’s weekend.”

Fuckin’ Twilight Zone shit. “Uh, congratulations?”

“Thank you,” Idri said with a short nod, like that was the end of that.

“But—son?” Eliot burst out. “You have a son? You’re a dad?”

“Yes, his name is Ess,” Idri said, a picture of shoddy patience. “He’s a senior at Oberlin.”

Oh, _ god _.

“Oh, god,” Eliot said, covering his face with his hands. But it didn’t help. No matter how much he tried to hide, he could fucking see Quentin’s big mocking eyes widening and a thousand _ He’s too goddamn old _ , _ El _ insinuations tingling on his perfect bratty lips.

(Not that Eliot was thinking about Quentin’s lips right now.)

A finger tapped him on top of the head and Eliot lifted his chin to find Idri looking down at him with a potent combination of amusement and irritation.

“I actually spoke about him extensively on our terribly awkward date,” Idri said slowly. “But I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

Shit.

“I didn’t think it was_ that _ awkward,” Eliot said, airy and trying not to wince again. But Idri didn’t give him a damn inch, keeping his gaze cool.

“You stared at another man the entire time and apparently didn’t listen to a single word I said.”

Eliot winced. “That’s—not totally accurate.”

“No, it is,” Idri said, kind and firm. “It was very embarrassing for you.”

Eliot wasn’t much of a blusher. On the rare occasion he was actually embarrassed, his palms got sweaty and his neck got hot. He wasn’t like Q, who turned beet red at the slightest startle or provocation. Ironic, since he was the one who naturally tanned and Eliot wasn’t.

(Not that Eliot was thinking about Quentin’s skin right now.)

Anyway, long tangent short, Eliot was lobster red at Idri’s intense scrutiny and no-holds-barred takedown, made all the more excruciating in his clear indifference.

The Crustacean King indeed.

“Okay. Um,” Eliot’s throat bobbed and he stared at his feet. “Sorry.”

In his periphery, he could see Idri’s feet cross the room and he followed the line he made, back to his desk. Standing tall, Idri organized a few pieces of paper before sitting down and restarting his computer, unconcerned with Eliot’s concern. As was right, for royalty.

“The job is New York based,” Idri said, squinting at his monitor. He pulled out a small pair of glasses and perched them on his nose, not looking at Eliot. “We’ll set you up with a penthouse along Central Park West. Not the hippest area of town, but near a train station and easy access to portals.”

Eliot laughed to himself and closed his eyes. “That sounds amazing.”

It really did.

It was terrifying.

“There will be quarterly travel,” Idri continued, blessedly unaware of Eliot’s dramatic internal monologue, “but most of the events take place in the city. So you’ll never be away from Quentin for long.”

Eliot’s eyes squeezed tighter. His breath was shallow. He was so close to maybe having everything he wanted. Maybe.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

… It was terrifying.

“Um,” he said, cursing how hoarse his voice was. “I don’t—I don’t think I can—I’m not _ basing _ my—I mean—”

He heard Idri scoff, “My god, you are so young.”

That startled him out of his bullshit. Eliot cleared his throat and looked at Idri again, apologizing with a clear, “Sorry.”

“I do have another meeting shortly,” Idri said, short but not impatient. He tapped on his watch and then glanced back over to his monitor. “So I’ll leave you by promising to forget _ all _ of this ever happened—”

“Thank you,” Eliot said with a big sigh of relief. It sparked a smile on Idri’s face.

“—And simply say that I look forward to hearing from you. I hope we can get the ink dry quickly so we can work together, once you look over the terms,” he said before standing up and extending his hand out for a shake. “Please let me know if you have any questions and always feel free to reach out to me for anything.”

“Thank you, Idri,” Eliot said, clasping his hand in his and shaking firm. “I—I’m overwhelmed. Still a little confused, but mostly overwhelmed and grateful. Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Idri said, kindly as ever. “Again, anything you need.”

With another squeeze of his hand, Idri turned away, dismissing him silently. Eliot tamped down a smile and turned on his heels, still blinking through the whiplash of the conversation.

In all, it obviously didn’t go as expected. It was a thousand times worse than expected, while still a thousand times better than expected. Life was fucking weird. And it maybe wasn’t nearly as bad as Eliot used to think.

But a job. He could have a _ job _ if he wanted. Where Eliot could do things he cared about—was passionate about—and he could find a sense of purpose, a place in the crazed Magician world. Sure, it was bougie nonsense, but it was _ his _ bougie nonsense.

Really, hadn’t seeking that kind of personal fulfillment been the start of all this, beyond the Quentin factor? Hadn’t that been why he befriended Alice, on that fateful day? Fuck, maybe it wasn’t Genji Quinn, but it was still something. More than something. It was everything.

It was fucking remarkable how things worked out.

“Ah, Eliot?” Idri’s voice called as he reached the door. Turning around, Eliot softly frowned and Idri tilted his head. “To clarify, please reach out to me for anything _ professional _that you need. I am only interested in a professional relationship moving forward. I cannot stress that enough.”

Eliot sucked his lips in between his teeth and swallowed a laugh at himself. Then he nodded, knocked twice on the door frame, and said, “Noted.”

Even still, the portal back to Brakebills was a particularly bright one.

* * *

**~**~**

**Christmas Day**

* * *

Loud music vibrated the windows of the Cottage and a first year was getting a blow job on the chair next to Eliot. The rowdy game of quarters on the coffee table nearby was getting vicious and Margo’s sweet head laid flat on his stomach. Ever Brakebills royalty, the two of them spread out the whole length of the couch, limbs tangled in graceful affection. Eliot blew a smoke ring into the air, like an Escher.

‘Tis the season.

Pressing his head into a big fluffy throw pillow and carding his fingers through Margo’s soft hair, Eliot was relaxed and, for once, not too tempted by the holiday drinks. One cup of warm spiced wine was all he needed to his holiday cheer afloat, or so he told himself. And it actually seemed to be working, as evidenced by how Josh Hoberman was leading a fucking conga line to a ska version of ‘Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer’ and Eliot only felt like_ half _his body was on fire in his fury.

So in all, it was definitely the best Christmas he had ever had.

Of course, Eliot having his girl in his lap didn’t hurt, the familiar scent of her perfume potent and bright in the smoky air. Two days earlier, Margo had mysteriously disappeared… definitely _ not _ to go celebrate the holidays with Julia and her terrible family as moral support and also because romantic partners sometimes spent big days together.

No, it was nothing like that.

Never.

(At least, no one would ever question her and live to know the answer.)

In whatever the definitely-not-that-case may be, Margo had only returned an hour before and she had definitely _ not _ gushed about her lovely time with her lovely girlfriend for most of that time. So it was _ not _only now that Eliot was finally able to talk shop, catching her up on the progress of his quest (“Still with that?”) and the surprise twist ending with Idri.

“He’s a cock,” Margo declared, plucking Eliot’s cigarette from his lips to smoke, having thankfully given up on her white smile-no wrinkles crusade. “He eye-fucked you nonstop and then gave _ you _ shit about assuming it was a sex thing?”

“He totally eye-fucked the fuck out of me,” Eliot agreed with an enthusiastic poke on her arm. He nursed his wine and nuzzled into her hair. “Thank you. Full-_ blown _ eye contact.”

“Fucker led you on,” Margo said, leaning over to ash the cigarette into the center of the quarters game, amidst nameless protests. “A married motherfucker led you on.”

Eliot sighed, tucking her head under his chin to soothe her from the pissed off yells. “Well, let’s be honest. We were both kind of married motherfuckers, in a way.”

“Do not call yourself married,” Margo said, twisting up to glare at him. “You’re not fuckin’ married.”

Eliot touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth and laughed, a breathless sound. “I said, _ in a way _—”

“No.”

Fine.

After Eliot zipped his lips to her satisfaction, Margo curled back into him, wrapping an arm up and around his neck so she could pose for the peons.

“Really though, I can’t believe you got a job offer without trying,” she said, tilting her head back to speak up at him, with an adoring gaze. “I hate you so much.”

He kissed the tip of her nose, trailing his fingers down the soft skin of her arms. “For once, I actually can’t believe it either. It must be what Q means when he talks about imposter syndrome.”

Eliot had gone a whole hour and ten minutes before slipping Quentin’s name into the conversation. He really did deserve a goddamn Medal of Honor.

Margo rolled her eyes and said seriously, “Can you get him to _ stop _ talking about imposter syndrome? We all get the concept.”

“Aww, I would never,” Eliot said gently, before flashing a shit eating grin at her grunt of acceptance.

“So you think you’re gonna do it?” Margo asked, frowning as she watched him from below. “Work for Idri?”

“It’s a real possibility,” Eliot said, not sure what answer to give other than that. But when he looked at her, Bambi’s eyes were slightly amused and slightly wary, a strange combination “What?”

“Nothing,” Margo breathed out, with an exaggerated frown. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Margo. It’s Christmas,” Eliot said, sliding up and away from her, so he could take her hands in his. He widened his eyes at her, like a soulless doll over an unnaturally bright smile. “At Christmas, you tell the truth.”

Love Actually was Margo’s favorite horror film.

To wit:

“Creepy as shit,” Bambi said with a shudder, before her smile sharpened. She leaned in and nearly giggled. “But can we watch that movie?”

Eliot leaned in to meet her with a sharp smile of his own. “Of course, darling.”

“Right now?”

“Of course, darling.”

“Can I ugly rant at you the whole time?”

“Of course, darling.”

Margo grasped his hand tight and brought it to her chest “And will you hold me during the jump scares?”

“Like when Hugh Grant dances,” Eliot said in low, whispering tone, “and the freckled kid wears an octopus costume?”

“Exactly,” Margo said, clapping a hand over her mouth and widening her eyes in fear. “I need strong arms to get me through it.”

“Of course, darling,” Eliot said, cupping her cheek to signal the end of the bit. She grinned into his palm and he sighed. “But seriously, what was that look about?”

She was about as subtle as an anvil and she knew it. So Margo sighed right back at him and flopped to the side, ticking a brow.

“It’s just—“ she said before sighing again and giving him a rare rueful glance. “I’d pay to be a fly on the wall when you tell Q that you’ll be working under Idri. Emphasis _ under. _”

Eliot’s stomach fell to the floor and his fingers went to his lips, twitching and anxious. Shit.

_ Shit. _

“Oh, shit. I—didn’t think of that,” he said, darting his gaze all around like he might find a solution. He landed on Margo. “You think he’ll care?”

Bambi rolled her eyes. “No, I’m sure he’ll stop being a pissy jealous baby overnight.”

“Fuck,” Eliot breathed out, clicking his teeth shut on the consonant.

He had always known that Idri didn’t hold a candle to how he felt about Q. It didn’t even hold a wet match. He had _ always _ known that Idri was a friendship at best, a distraction at worst. But in hindsight, Eliot could see how maybe, possibly, Q hadn’t always known exactly the same thing.

“Hey, he’ll get over it,” Margo said, tossing her hair and rubbing his tense neck. “But it’s probably not something you wanna hide during your big rom-com convo.”

“If it’s a dealbreaker for him,” Eliot said solemnly, “it’s a dealbreaker for me.”

An elbow was a sharp and crushing pain to the ribs. He hissed, glaring down at the combatant. She was about as remorseful as she had ever been.

“El, that’s not rational,” Margo said, brow tight and eyes flashing. “You have to think about your future.”

Oh, he was. “I am.”

“Your dick’s maybe,” Bambi retorted because she was forever his Bambi.

“More like what my priority is,” Eliot said, swallowing a lump. “What matters to me.”

He would turn down a thousand job offers. No questions asked.

“That is very romantic and very fucking stupid,” Margo said, like dogma. Then she cuddled into his arms and ran her fingernails soft along his skin. “All I actually meant was that you should talk to your nerd. Because he’ll get over it.”

Eliot closed his eyes and tried to stay present. There was so much threatening to sweep him away, into the bottomless ocean, and so he had to stay present. He couldn’t drown. Not now. Not even when it would be so easy to.

“This is all a few steps ahead anyway,” Eliot choked out, sounding more devastated than careless, he knew. “Chances are still good he’ll say, _ That’s nice, El, but _—“

His ribs cracked open, exposed to the needle point air. He imagined taking out his flask and drinking until the liquid swirled around his heart, quelling and soothing it.

But Eliot didn’t move.

“Bullshit,” Margo said, popping up to kiss under his jaw. “Not how it’s gonna go down.”

“It’s okay,” Eliot half-lied. “Even if that’s how it goes down. It’s okay.”

Because it really was okay if Quentin responded that way. Eliot would understand. It would make sense. It was what most people would tell Quentin to do. It would be the best decision, really, the most self-preservant. The rational choice.

And Eliot would promise him that he never had expectations. He would tell him that no matter what—_ no matter what _—Eliot was still his best friend. And he would be, in any way he was allowed. So yeah, Eliot would actually mean it when he told Q that it was okay. It was okay. It would be okay.

But none of that meant _ Eliot _ would be okay.

And Eliot wouldn’t be okay. 

Not for a long time.

—That wasn’t Quentin’s problem though.

“Q deserves to know,” Eliot continued, steadying his voice and licking his lips. He cleared his throat and blinked new wetness away. “More than I deserve anything in return.”

He wrapped his arms around Margo and hugged her, dipping his face into the crook of her neck. She hugged him back tight, before she patted him on the chest and then gently on the face. As she did, Bambi smiled at him, both playful and deadly serious.

“Jesus, let’s go do something fun,” she said, grabbing his hand and tugging him up. “Before it gets too ‘Judy Garland’s _ Merry Little Christmas’ _in this bitch.”

“Yeah, fair,” Eliot said with a laugh, shaking off the mood. Patting his person to check for all his valuables, he paused over an empty trouser pocket. “Shit, where’s my phone?”

Margo shrugged one shoulder up, bored at the question already. “In the couch?”

Eliot dipped his hand between the cushions and his fingers wrapped around something sleek and slablike. He grinned and pulled it out, hitting the home button as he kissed her cheek.

“My genius Bambi,” he said, before glancing down at a message notification. “Ooh, let’s see, what have we—“

But then Eliot almost dropped the phone back down into the couch, hands numb and heart electrified.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:02 PM _

_ Merry Gauchemas _

* * *

The phone slid up and almost out of his hands before Eliot grabbed at it, holding it between all ten fingers. He sank back down onto the couch and swallowed his saliva over and over again. He barely registered Margo sitting down next to him, until he whipped his face at her and thrust his phone at her.

“What do I do?” Eliot asked frantically. “What do I—what do I—?”

Margo ignored him, frowning at the message. “What’s _ Gauchemas _?”

“Margo, it’s Q,” Eliot laughed and laughed. Was laughter the right response? He wasn’t sure. “Quentin texted me.”

“I see that,” Bambi said slowly. “Again, what the fuck is _ Gauchemas _?”

“It’s an inside joke,” he said, with a hysterical hard giggle. “I think secular Christmas is gauche. Hence.”

“God, what a nerd,” Margo said with an eye roll.

“It’s _ Quentin _ ,” Eliot said, changing to a snarl on a dime. His skin was on fire. “He’s _ reaching out to me _. Now.”

It had only been five days since Q wrote the letter. He had only waited five days to reach out to Eliot. He could _ only _ wait five days before reaching out to Eliot.

Did Quentin miss Eliot?

Did this mean Quentin already missed Eliot?

Did he—did he—why was Quentin reaching out to Eliot?

Why? What did it mean?

_ What the fuck did it mean? _

Eliot’s panicked eyes finally fell on Margo and he almost started laughing again, mouth wide open and catching flies but he didn’t care because it was Quentin. Quentin. Quentin.

_ Quentin. _

Oh, god.

He was going to be sick.

Just as Eliot was about to hurl though, Margo’s hand caught his and squeezed. A rush of calm emanated from the center point of her contact and Eliot could breathe again. But his heart was still galloping like a race horse, fast and keeping him well off the ground.

“Okay, try to calm down, I’ll figure it out, honey,” Margo said, biting her lip and rolling it between her teeth. Eliot took deep breaths, remembering to trust his Bambi. He could always trust his Bambi.

She knew the answer.

She always knew the answer.

Her eyes were narrowed in deep thought until she snapped her fingers. “Got it.”

“Thank god,” Eliot said, hands shaking for his drink. Instead, he held them over the touchpad. “Okay, hit me.”

Beautiful Bambi sat up straight, leveling him with her twinkliest gaze. “Write back, _ And a happy NUDE year, honey. _”

Margo smiled proudly.

Eliot was going to murder her.

“What?” His hand slammed into his face before he ducked down to hiss at her. “Why the _ fuck _ would I send that, Margo?”

“Lets him know where your head’s at,” Bambi said with a languid shake of her shoulders and tits. She smirked sweetly. “You know, both of ‘em.”

Homicide was sometimes justified. “Oh my god, no.”

She crossed her arms. “It’s funny and flirty.”

“It’s _ insane _ ,” Eliot said, whispering his shout as he burst his hands out by his head. “Wait, are you—are you _ bad _ at this?” His eyes widened in horror. “Are we _ both _ bad at this?”

Margo gasped. “Fuck you!”

Eliot pointedly ignored her and curled himself around the phone, staring at the words until they made him crosseyed. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

“I just—“ Eliot shook his head again “—I need a second, okay?”

It was Quentin. He just had to respond to Quentin. His best friend Quentin. The man he loved and hurt and wanted more than anything, Quentin. The love of his life, Quentin. No biggie.

He gulped the rest of his wine in a single shot.

“Fine, answer your damn text. But don’t hurt yourself thinking,” Margo said, smacking him on the back of the head before she planted a kiss there. “I’m going to get the movie ready and heat up some hot chocolate for us, you fuckshit.”

“Love you too,” Eliot said distractedly, lifting one hand in the air to lazily wave, eyes never moving from the words.

_ Merry Gauchemas _

It was Quentin.

He just had to respond to Quentin.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:02 PM _

_ Merry Gauchemas _

_ and to you, good sir  
always glad to hear from a convert _

_ Hell no  
_ _ You’ll take “Winter Wonderland”  
_ _ From my frostbitten, festive hands _

_ is that the horny one? _

_ Honestly they’re all horny _

* * *

Eliot laughed at that, out loud. He could hear him in his head. See the tiny wry smile, the false seriousness in his eyes. The way Q would push his hair back and scratch his thumb along his heavy brow, glancing away to keep from laughing.

He was giddy and lightheaded.

Enough to work up the courage to play it straight, if only for a minute.

(Well, in a manner of speaking.)

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:10 PM _

_ is that the horny one? _

_ Honestly they’re all horny _

_ ah, the forties seemed great _

_ I’ve heard there were one or two drawbacks  
_ _ You know, societally  
_ _ Cool hats though _

_ hey, i’m glad to hear from you  
_ _ merry christmas, q _

* * *

And… Eliot promptly panicked when there was no response for thirty seconds.

Then one minute.

Then two minutes.

Then—

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:15 PM _

_ Thanks, El  
_ _ How are things? _

* * *

He breathed.

He backed off.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:15 PM _

_ Thanks, El  
_ _ How are things? _

_ oh fine  
_ _ how’s the land of milk and honey? _

_ Jersey is fine too _

_ fine all around then _

_ Guess so _

* * *

i miss you  
i love you  
please come home

— Eliot didn’t send.

Obviously.

But he thought it, with every word he actually typed.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:17 PM _

_ fine all around then _

_Guess so  
_ _Brakebills holding up without me?_

* * *

it’s a hellhole  
it can crater into nothing  
worthless without you

—Again.

The same.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:17 PM _

_ Brakebills holding up without me? _

_ barely  
_ _ kids on break are a migraine  
_ _ i've been far too sober for their antics _

* * *

Yes, okay, fine. Eliot was trying to get some fucking brownie points, okay? Sue him. If he wasn’t going to drink as much, it was going to _ matter _, goddammit.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:18 PM _

_ kids on break are a migraine  
_ _ been far too sober for their antics _

_No Fuck Christmas ragers going on?_

_ excuse me  
_ _ you know how i feel about that word_

_ I do know  
_ _ That’s why I used it_

_ so bold  
so rude_

_ Rude’s my name, bein’ lewd’s my game  
_ _ Take me or leave me _

* * *

Quentin was such a nerd. Eliot felt like he was going to cry. He wanted to take him, take him, _ take him. _

Please.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:23 PM _

_ Rude’s my name, bein’ lewd’s my game  
_ _ Take me or leave me _

_ you are such a nerd, holy shit _

_ Yeah, well  
_ _ But seriously, no parties? _

_ obviously there have been parties  
_ _ but i’m taking a booze break _

_ For thesis writing?  
_

_more like indefinitely_

_ Oh  
_ _ Wow _

_ to be clear: not totally dry, not a saint  
_ _ cutting back a lot though _

_ Shit  
_ _ Wow _

* * *

Based on the small gray box that kept popping up and disappearing, Quentin kept typing and deleting, typing and deleting, start and restart, on a loop.

It went on for awhile.

Eliot decided to take pity on him—and avoid anything too heavy, for the sake of his fragile and bleeding heart—and changed the subject.

* * *

**  
_SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:30 PM _

_ Shit  
_ _ Wow  
_

_so are you still coming to nye?_

* * *

Another thirty seconds. Another minute. Another two minutes. Another _ three _minutes and Eliot had decided to offer himself up as a human sacrifice of some kind. He didn’t care to who. Someone was probably doing some weird shit somewhere and could use a—

The phone vibrated.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:36 PM _

_ I don’t know yet  
_ _ I’ll try my best, okay? _

* * *

Eliot was a fucking idiot. He always pushed too much, too soon. 

Like a fucking idiot.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:37 PM _

_ I don’t know yet  
_ _ I’ll try my best, okay? _

_ whatever you need  
_ _ only curious _

_ Sorry _

_ no don’t be sorry  
_ _ we’ll save you some sparkles _

* * *

That was totally a thing people said and was really normal and not weird, right?

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:38 PM _

_ we’ll save you some sparkles_

_  
_ _Sure, thanks?_

* * *

Fair enough.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:38 PM _

_ Sure, thanks? _

_ always _

_ Not to text and ditch, but I have to run  
_ _ Obligation dinner with Mommie Dearest _

* * *

Oh.

Well, that was fine. Of course.

* * *

**  
_SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:40 PM _

_ Obligation dinner with Mommie Dearest _

_ yikes sorry  
_ _ thoughts & prayers _

_Medea has a strict no phone policy  
_ _ “Millennials” _

_ of course she fucking does  
_ _ well, godspeed, kid _

_ You too, big guy :) _

* * *

Eliot swallowed and his heart rate picked up.

He was pathetic.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:41 PM _

_ i appreciate the sarcastic emoticon choice  
simple, classic  
_

_:) :) :)_

_ uh huh _

_ What?  
_ _ I’m just smiling a lot _

* * *

Eliot was madly in love with him.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:42 PM _

_ via punctuation marks  
_ _ as you do _

_ As I do _

_ brat :) _

_ Stop setting me up _

_ never _

* * *

Never_. _

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:43 PM _

_ Really gotta go though  
_ _ Hope I see you all soon _

_ hope so too, q  
_ _ we all miss you around here _

* * *

With a low exhale, Eliot thumbed at the side of his phone to click it into blackness. 

That’ll do, pig. 

He had said what he wanted to say—within the confines of what he could say, now—and it had gone... well. It _ almost _ felt like it was the two of them talking, rather than a strange, strained version of themselves. So it was good.

It was fine.

But just as Eliot was about to pocket it and head upstairs to meet Margo, ready to scream into a pillow and maybe sob for some reason, the phone vibrated against his hand one more time.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/25/16, 6:44 PM _

_ I really miss you all too  
_ _ A lot _

* * *

Well.

Fuck.

Eliot leaned back against the couch, phone cradled to his thudding heart. He smiled, fear and elation jumping through his veins.

_ Fuck. _

* * *

**3\. Ugh**

* * *

The texting based chasmic high and lows—the stark fear and the sheer giddiness brought on by words written by _ Quentin _—evolved to a fire in the belly overnight. Eliot slammed his door behind him in the blue morning glow, thin light slanted through the low windows.

It was only eight and everyone in the Cottage was still sound asleep, resting off their Christmas hangovers. But Eliot was awake, spikes at the bottom of his feet and jolts of lightning pacing him up and down the hallway. He was still in his favorite pair of red silk pajamas, his hair mussed every way possible, and he didn’t even care.

He had reached the point of no return.

If Eliot did this, he was in for the long haul. He would have no further recourse. He would be facing all his shit with open eyes. Admittedly, not his usual forte.

But on the other hand—

Not thinking shit through before doing whatever the fuck he was going to do in the first place? Well, that was a dance Eliot knew better than his own soul.

So without further adieu and ignoring the usual screaming in his gut, Eliot took an unusual turn down the corridor and pounded his fist on an unfamiliar door. It only took a few seconds to click open and a mess of dark curls frizzed out over a yawn.

Kady Orloff-Diaz stood in a braless gray tank top and a pair of men’s boxers, eyes squinted with sleep. But it only took another few seconds for them to widen with alarm and recognition. Then they hardened into the stone slits he was most used to.

“Hell no,” was all Kady said as she moved to slam the door closed again. But Eliot caught it with a long arm, looming over her angry upturned face.

“Five minutes,” he said, voice low and rough. She sneered and flicked her middle finger up with all the delicacy in the world.

“Fuck yourself sideways, Waugh,” she said, using all her strength to fight against his hold on the door. She was strong, so he added a telekinetic touch, much to her obvious annoyance. Just as Kady was about to lodge her vocal protest though—and possibly knee him in the balls—Eliot leaned in further and spat his argument out through his grit teeth.

“I want to talk to you about as much as you want to talk to me, but—“

“Then why bother?” Kady asked, still pushing at the door with both arms. Eventually she let them drop with a heaving breath and glared up at him. “We’ve got a good mutual loathing thing going here, man.”

“Because it’s not good,” Eliot said, sharp and quick. “For anyone. This is—I think we’d benefit from a detente.”

They had both already done enough damage. It was time for them to stop. It was time for it all to stop, if not for their sake, but for the people around them.

Kady was as stubborn as she was awful though. “Or I wait five months and then I’ll never see your face again.”

“What, because I graduate?” Eliot laughed, sharpening his teeth. “Magical community isn’t that big, honey.”

“Call me _ honey _ again,” Kady said, jolting forward like she was going to knock her skull into his and break them both. Jesus, she was the fucking worst. Eliot’s head hurt.

“I’m not trying to be your friend,” he said, sucking in his lower lip and biting down hard. “I don’t want to be your fucking friend.”

Kady snorted. “With you so far.”

Eliot wanted to curse her into oblivion. His fingers twitched and shook with the power of how much he couldn’t stand the sight of her. But it wasn’t about him.

It wasn’t about him. _ It wasn’t about him _, as had become a horrible and sobering—in every fucking sense of the word—mantra. Reaching some kind of truce or treaty with this bitch mattered, not because he would ever forgive her or she would ever forgive him, but because they needed to do right by—

“Alice,” Eliot said quietly. He was gratified by the hint of hesitation in Kady’s snake green eyes. “We both care about her and we both fucked that up, together. We owe her—”

The olivine stone returned, colder than ever. “Please. Don’t pretend you give a shit about Alice.”

“Actually, I excel at the opposite,” Eliot said, chuckling and sighing out bare minimum honesty. “Pretending that I don’t give a shit when I _ do _. I have no use for the inverse.”

Kady threw a giant thumbs up in his face. “Cool story, bro.”

God, Eliot hated her.

He had a sudden pain in his neck and he rubbed at it with his thumb, pressing so hard he could have pushed his muscle into the center of the earth. Every instinct was telling him to retreat, that this bullshit wasn’t worth it, that you couldn’t negotiate with unwilling cunts. That everything would forever be too broken to fix, so like Kady said in a rare moment of wisdom—_ why fucking bother _?

That actually was his cowardice talking though.

Eliot was getting better at recognizing its insidious language, even if he was far from fluent. So he took a deep breath, swallowed his pride, and changed tactics.

“Look, I shouldn’t have drugged you,” Eliot said, knowing it was the right thing to say. He believed it. He just didn’t like talking about it even to the people he trusted most, let alone her. “It was wrong of me.”

“That’s your big fuckin’ revelation?” Kady said, crossing her arms and still blocking the way into her room. “_ Drugging people is wrong _?”

The threadbare string of Eliot’s patience snapped into tatters. “So is not getting your shit in order when there’s an innocent person in range of your battle magic bullshit, you fucking—”

Her teeth gnashed at him. “I apologized to the person I needed to apologize to.”

“Yeah, well, he’s someone who doesn’t always value his own life the way he should,” Eliot said, voice cracking over the words. That was always what it came down to, right? That was the goddamn crux of it all. “So sometimes? We have to value it for him. We got protective. Can you really blame us for that?”

Kady opened her mouth but only a soft gasp came out. She stared up at the top of the doorframe, hugging herself as her tongue ran over her teeth. She closed her eyes and shook her head, before pinning him with a serious stare.

“I can blame you for a lot of things,” she finally said, but it was softer than before. A win. Of sorts.

Eliot shrugged. “Join the club.”

“But you blame me too,” Kady said, a statement of fact more than her usual accusations.

“You can’t think you have no responsibility,” Eliot said, scoffing. “You’re not that much of a—”

Kady laughed, too loud and humorless.

“Of course I know I have—” she said, screwing her eyes shut tight. She pressed her lips together and popped them open, before shaking her head even more and staring at the ground. “Listen, you are never going to understand my perspective on this. So—once again, why bother? Let’s leave each other the fuck alone, forever, okay?”

Kady offered him something like a sad smile, though it was more of a downturn of lips and gentler eyes than she had ever let him see before. She knocked twice on the doorframe, much like his own habit, and she began to close the door.

With grim precision, Eliot knew exactly what he had to say.

“I killed someone.”

Kady stopped and spun around, black curls flying. Eliot couldn’t bare to meet her eyes, so he stared at his smoking slippers. “With magic, when I was a teenager. So, ah, I may understand more than you think.”

The silence was cold and tense, making the air too thick to breathe.

“So you’re a hypocrite on top of everything?” Her voice wasn’t as unkind as her words.

“Apparently,” Eliot said, as steady as he could. He finally looked up at her. “Does that surprise you?”

“Does anyone else know?” Kady’s stare was calculating and steely, but not totally closed off. “That you’re a killer?”

“Alice knows, yeah,” Eliot said, answering the question she was really asking. She didn’t care what Margo or Q knew. “I’m spreading my shit far and wide these days, it seems.”

Kady pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, ticking up a brow. Then she sighed, loud and rough, cocking her head toward her darkened room.

“Five minutes,” she said, turning and opening space for him to follow. He nodded and did.

Upon entry, Kady walked to her neatly organized desk and she grabbed at the neck of an oversized bottle of cheap vodka. She held it up and shook it, the clear liquid sloshing with foreboding.

“We’re drinking.”

Eliot stepped all the way through the threshold and took in his surroundings. Her room was Spartan, with only a Pat Benatar poster and a dark green comforter as any signs of personality. He bit back a snarky _ Love what you’ve done with the place _and faced her, stomach jolting at the angled liquor gallon in her hands.

“I’m actually—” Eliot said, clearing his throat and offering her a wary smile. “I’m trying not to drink too much right now.”

Kady twisted open the red cap and chugged a gulp before glaring at him. “We’re _ drinking _.”

“Fine. One glass,” Eliot said, squinting at the bottle; it was literally called Cheap Al’s Vodka. He shuddered. “Rocks and lime please.”

“I’m not pouring it,” Kady said, lifting a corner of her lip and ungraciously tossing him the bottle. He caught it awkwardly and stared a thousand ice storms into her eyes.

“I do not drink out of plastic bottles,” Eliot said in his most dangerous whisper.

“Then you leave,” she said with a shrug, plopping down into her chair and throwing her feet up on the desk. Eliot stared at her for a moment and then down at the bottle. Then back up at her. Then back at the bottle.

Committed to the bitter end, he swigged.

He gagged.

“For the record,” Eliot said, gasping over the acrid taste, “you are unpleasant.”

Kady shrugged again and reached her hand out, taking the bottle. She drank and licked her lips, not looking at him. “Why do you like Alice?”

That was not the question Eliot expected. He swallowed a shitty aftertaste and sat down on the foot of her bed, without permission. “Sorry?”

“You said you care about her,” Kady said, face guarded and still. “Why?”

“I imagine for similar reasons as you,” Eliot said with a frown. But his answer sparked a glint in her eye and Kady twisted around her torso, leaning forward on her elbow.

“Because she looks like a prissier, nerdier Faye Dunaway,” she said, tongue flicking out around her sardonic and teasing tone, “and it awakened a powerful sapphic _ Bonnie and Clyde _ fantasy within you like a fucking tidal wave?”

He smirked.

“Okay, maybe there are a couple of differences,” Eliot said lightly. Then he snorted, deciding to throw her a kindness bone. “You would look good in a pinstripe suit.”

“I would crush a pinstripe suit,” Kady said, fully arching a brow over a smirk of her own. But then her face fell flat again. “Why do you like Alice?”

Eliot stilled and crossed his legs at the ankle, trying to project a cultivated calm over his pounding heart. Remorseful affection wrapped its way around his stomach and he sighed, trying to think of an answer worthy of the subject.

“I like Alice because she’s the kind of person I wish I could be,” he said quietly, truthfully. It caught Kady’s attention, with a rare blink of full emotion in her eyes. Eliot stared down at his hands and let the words flow organically, without precision. “She’s sharp and brilliant, but she’s also sincere and empathetic and good. She doesn’t apologize for her own sense of self or her many complexities, but you can see how she tries to be better every day. I admire her as much as I enjoy her company.”

Silence fell between them again, but it was almost companionable this time. Kady shifted in her chair and hung her head back, hair falling in waves. She stared at the ceiling, unblinking.

“Not a bad answer.”

“Thanks.”

Kady inhaled and turned to stare at him, a touch of sarcasm painted over her careful neutrality. “So you think if we go to her, like, _ Look, we’re buds now _, she’ll give us a big hug and that’s that?”

“God, no. Give her more credit,” Eliot said with a laugh. Then he cracked his neck, still pained, and let out a slow breath. “I just think we’ve both caused enough damage and facing it head-on instead of pushing it under the exploding rug is—a start.”

“That’s a theory,” Kady grumbled, before chugging more of the godawful vodka. Then she threw it at him, clearly expecting reciprocity. “Okay, so—when you killed someone.”

Eliot hissed his disgust as he drank, tongue retching out. “What about it?”

“What happened?” Kady asked, flat and impatient, like he was already supposed to know that was what she meant. “Did you just, like, snap?”

He answered with a question because he was a dick like that. “Did you?”

“I don’t know,” Kady said, staring resolutely into the corner. Her voice was so quiet that Eliot almost didn’t hear her, but his chest tightened all the same. He took a willing sip of the vodka, because he was an alcoholic and this sucked.

“I think that’s why I hate you so much,” Eliot said, lips pointing up into a sharp and false smile. “Because part of me thinks it must have been—“

That was the other crux of it.

He knew magic. He knew that when he crushed Logan Kinnear with a bus, it was because he wanted to _ fucking crush Logan Kinnear with a bus _. Shit didn’t really happen accidentally. Magic found a way to take your worst impulses and make them manifest. Ergo, that meant Kady must have, in some way, intended to—

“If it was directed or intentional, it wasn’t meant for him,” she said, hoarse and still staring away. Then she laughed, closing her eyes. “It was meant for you.”

Something small and piercing released in his sternum, something Eliot hadn’t totally known was there. Relief came out with it, imbuing his muscles and bones with a tingling warmth, like a balm. It wasn’t a complete salve, but it was a start.

“I could actually forgive that,” Eliot said, shrugging when her surprised eyes met him. “At least I can understand why you wanted to hurt _ me _.”

The final crux.

Kady stared at him, unreadable. Then she swung forward in the chair, elbows on her bare knees and she almost smiled at him.

Not quite. But almost.

“You know, I said that to Coldwater when I apologized to him. That he had gotten caught up in bullshit I never intended. That if I had meant to hurt anyone, it was you,” Kady said, choosing her words carefully. Then she smiled fully with her bright teeth, even though her eyes remained cool. “I think it was the only thing I said that pissed him off. Like, _ really _ pissed him off.”

Warmth rushed up through him, but Eliot ignored it. Wasn’t the time.

So instead, he snorted and waved her off, trying to hide his tiny grin. “Well, Q can be an idiot.”

Eliot had gotten really terrible at hiding though and Kady fully rolled her eyes at his expression. Or maybe he had never actually been good at hiding and everyone else was just much more polite than she was. Either way, Eliot schooled his face and passed her the bottle. She took a long sip and narrowed her eyes, thoughtfully.

“I’ve never had friends like that,” Kady said, startling him with the personal information. He felt like he had a killer chipmunk trapped and he had successfully gained its acquiescence with a bit of food or something. “Started to think I could, with Julia and Penny, but I fucked all that up.”

Eliot had never been one for self-pity. So he rolled his eyes right back at her.

“Why did you work for a Hedge then?” He hit a nerve, if the way she sat straight up and snarled was any indication. “That’s what I don’t get. You chose a side, but it was like you wanted both.”

“I didn’t choose shit,” Kady snapped, before taking her largest gulp yet. She threw the bottle at his head and he barely caught it, telekinetically. “My mom sold me to Marina a few years ago.”

Those words together in that sentence did not make sense.

His brow folded over. “Excuse me?”

Kady grabbed the bottle back and drank deeper, darting eyes giving away her frenzy even as she kept her body cool and in control.

“Deal was, I did Marina’s dirty work or my mom got killed because she fucked up one too many times under that bitch’s watch,” she said after she released the bottle from her mouth with a sighing pop. At Eliot’s silent, horrified question, she pinched her lips. “Hedge. Magic junkie. Heroin junkie too, just to keep it classic.”

His brain malfunctioned, overwhelmed with guilt and empathy. Eliot opened and closed his mouth like an animatronic character at a tacky kids’ birthday party venue.

“I—oh my god—I—“

Kady cut him off with a laser glare. “Pity me and you’re dead.”

His heart spun around several times as he tried to find solid ground and he swallowed over a rapidly forming lump, wide and dry as a desert.

“But you were defying Marina, right? That day?” Eliot tried desperately to remember what had happened, with the filter of new information. “Is your mom—?”

He was going to say _ okay _, but Kady cut him off again, this time with a harsh, gasping laugh.

“Gone? Six feet under? Yeah,” she said and _ oh god _ , Eliot didn’t have any template to help process that. “Not by the psycho’s hands though. Regular ol’ drug overdose. Big contributor to the whole _ out of my damn mind _thing.”

The air punched out of him and Eliot buried his face in his hands. “Jesus. I am—”

“Pity me and you’re _ dead _,” her voice said, more astringent than before. Eliot snapped his head up and looked at her. Maybe he saw her for the first time.

“You should have told us,” Eliot said, quiet. “It would have changed everything.”

“Wasn’t any of your business,” she said, scrunching her nose. He swallowed an inappropriate laugh.

“You _made_ _it _our business when you—“

“I was gonna tell Quentin,” Kady said, smile growing dangerous again. “I thought he’d be the least assholish about it, of all my fucking options.”

Eliot scoffed. “None of us would have been—“

Kady tilted her head all the way to the side and tapped her chin mockingly. “I’m sorry, have you _ met _ Margo Hanson?”

No.

She didn’t get to say shit about Bambi. Not to him.

“Margo can be black and white about things,” Eliot forced out calmly over his anger, “but she’s not a monster.”

“She and Julia still would have thought going to Fogg was the right thing to do,” Kady said, sighing and letting her arms fall at her sides. “I know that about Julia, especially."

Eliot bit the tip of his tongue and matched her sigh. Yeah, Julia was myopic about that kind of shit. And likely, Margo would have gone with whatever Julia wanted, because she wouldn’t have cared enough about Kady to waste her own energy. She wasn’t wrong. But still, his allegiance was clear.

“Maybe,” he conceded tentatively. A rush of conviction hit him and Eliot leaned forward to try to meet her eyes. “But I wouldn’t have.”

Kady groaned and shook her head. “And I was just supposed to intuit that about you? Not a psychic. I barely fucking knew you.”

Anger overtook conviction and his nostrils flared.

“Right, ‘cause you and Quentin were bosom buddies,” Eliot said, clipped and sarcastic. Then he accused outright, tired of games. “You were always a bitch to him.”

Kady didn’t deny it. She lifted one shoulder up, cool and unapologetic. “My life was down the shitter and he was annoying.”

“Oh, how endearing,” Eliot spat out.

“No excuse, but it was what it was,” Kady said, taking another drink. She shook the bottle at him in an offer and he grabbed it, hating himself. “I still knew he was the only person in the Cottage I could trust.”

“You didn’t deserve it,” Eliot declared between swallows. “Not from him.”

Kady bit out her words like flying knives. “Wasn’t your call.”

At that, a thud of breathless silence fell between his ribs.

Eliot took a long pull of the vile liquid and then settled it between his legs, hands twitching around the bottleneck. He stared down at the vodka and spun it a little, creating a tiny vacuum. 

After an anguished moment, he nodded and choked out two difficult words.

“You’re right.”

Eliot flicked his eyes up at Kady. He would have been gratified at her look of shock if it hadn’t taken such an indignity to achieve it.

Her eyebrows pulled together and her voice wavered. “What?”

“It wasn’t my call. I’m not good at—” Eliot smiled wide and stared straight ahead, forcing the mortifying words out. “I don’t always trust Quentin to make his own decisions. I’m not good at accepting that he knows his own mind and that sometimes he just—disagrees with me. I can be controlling in my desire to protect him. But I’m trying to be better about that.”

He resisted the urge to slump over on his legs and pass the fuck out, but only barely.

Talking was exhausting.

Talking to Kady was coma inducing.

Eliot took another gulp and thrust it back, not looking at her. But out of his periphery, he saw her face settle into a snorting smile. She shook her head as she twisted the cap back on the plastic gallon and put it to the side.

Kady blinked her eyes at him, wide and too discerning. “You know it’s insane that you guys talk about each other the way you do, right?”

Despite his jumping heart’s desire to know, Eliot figured asking Kady what Quentin had ever said about him wouldn’t go down well. So he just shrugged and said, “Yeah.”

“Like, _ insane _.”

Eliot glared at her. “I know.”

“Are you guys even fucking?”

“Message received.”

He slammed his final glare at her, dull and _ done _. She sucked her lower lip between her teeth and smirked, victorious.

“As long as you’re aware,” Kady said, shaking her head and propping her legs back up. “I guess.”

The silence was still tense and awkward. But Eliot didn’t even think about his breath as they sat there, conversation dragging the way it did between two people with almost no common ground. Or at least, two people with too much shit between them for any common ground to matter.

Any amount of peace was still peace though. It was a worthy goal.

“I’m sorry about the truth serum,” Eliot said, laying it all out there because why the fuck not? “It was petty and cruel, and it goes against all my beliefs about autonomy. I’m trying to be less of an asshole in the future, and saying that is one of the ways I can start.”

He still wasn’t sure that Kady deserved his forgiveness. But Eliot was also less sure that he deserved to _ offer _that forgiveness. Both truths existed at once, in tandem.

Shit was complicated.

The truth was though, if Eliot was going to deal with any of this—in a real way, in a way that mattered—he couldn’t have a thundercloud following him around everywhere. He owed that to himself, above all. And it had to be enough, for now.

Kady flattened her lips into a straight line and considered him.

“I can accept that as much as—I can, I guess,” she said quietly. At least it wasn’t a kick in the dick. “I’m sorry that I didn’t give a shit about how much you give a shit. Even though you _ drugging me _ was still—“

Eliot held his hand up to cut her off before they ended up down nasty circles all over again. “I’ll accept whatever version of an apology you’re willing to give me, okay?”

“Fine,” Kady said, biting her cheek and stretching her mouth into a smile.

“Fine,” Eliot said, at a loss for anything else.

He sucked in a breath and looked around her room, searching for something to provoke a graceful exit. But instead, his eyes landed on a pink butterfly barrette in a small glass container on the nightstand. It was arranged on an even smaller pillow, magically created and carefully placed, as though with reverence.

His damn empathy worked itself up into a tizzy again. 

Eliot groaned and he reluctantly flashed his eyes back over to Kady. “Gonna go get your girl now?”

“Don’t be dumb,” she said, grabbing the vodka again and opening it. She drank. “That’s over.”

Eliot tried not to sputter his lips in outrage. Half succeeded.

“What? You’re maybe the most hardcore tenacious bitch I’ve ever met in my life and _ Margo _ is the light of my life,” Eliot said, actually laughing a little. She glared at him and he crossed his arms. “But you’re giving up? Just like that?”

“She doesn’t want me,” Kady said, ticking her head and widening her eyes with false bravado. “Made that very clear.”

“Well, that’s some weakass bullshit, to speak your language.”

Kady sprang to her feet and started pacing around her room, feet stomping like she was wearing army boots even in bare feet. She scowled and kept drinking, wiping away the liquor with the back of her hand.

“I’ve been down this path before, okay?” Kady stopped midpace and buried her fingers in her hair, glaring up at her ceiling. “Do you know how badly I demolished things with Penny? How much I fucked him over?”

Eliot didn’t actually know very much. Margo had filled him in at some point, with all her Gossip Queen knowledge. But honestly, he hadn’t cared about the dramatics of two presumed hot heteroites until Kady had blasted her way onto the top of his shit list.

He did remember a few nasty fights on the quad though. Midday too, replete with yelling and throwing. Not midnight drunken bullshit; day-to-day kind of bullshit. It had seemed tiring, at best.

Eliot chose each word precisely. “If I recall, it was kind of a mutual fuck-each-other-over toxicfest.”

“People don’t change,” Kady said, staring down at the ground. “I don’t change.”

“With that attitude, sure,” Eliot said, rolling his eyes. Self-pity was boring, boring, boring. He would know better than anyone.

“You wouldn’t understand, man,” she said, ever the perpetual counterculture adolescent. “My shit is complicated.”

Please. Dead mom and blackmailed servitude or not, Kady’s shit didn’t have shit on Eliot’s shit. His shit could destroy entire worlds in a fell swoop, backwards and in high heels.

“Try me,” Eliot said though, simply tilting his head. But Kady barely acknowledged the invitation to speak, just staring upward with her jaw tensed, for an awkwardly long time.

And as Eliot was about to get up and leave, having tried his best, Kady burst her hands out and growled, “Alice? Underneath all that prickliness and snobby bullshit? She has such a fucking _ good heart _.”

And Eliot frowned because—

He knew that?

… Did she think he didn’t know that?

But then Kady started pacing again and it occurred to him that she wasn’t really talking to him. “She’s kind and sweet and cares so goddamn much, about everything, even when she pretends she doesn’t. But then, like, she’s actually really funny too. And she’s gorgeous and—and she makes you feel like you’re on top of the world when she deems you worthy of her attention, not to even speak of her affection. And she’s so fucking brilliant—like, genius brilliant. It’s so hot.”

Eliot’s frown deepened. “I think you’re giving the wrong person this speech.”

“I’m not good enough for her,” Kady said, looking him right in the eyes. It sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. “With all my shit? Everything I’ve done? I’m talking way before last year. All of that builds to the person I am, which is layers of family bullshit and defensive garbage and just my own ugly ass flaws.”

She slumped back into the chair, defeated, hands plastered over her eyes. “Like—I can’t do it. I can’t fuck someone up like that. Not again. Especially not someone I care so much about.”

Kady let out a long choked breath, almost like a sob. Silence fell like a dark cloak again, broken and sad. Her hands slid down and her exposed face was drawn in lines of devastation, pale and trembling. He had never seen her look so small, so vulnerable.

So, you know—

Eliot probably should have felt bad for bursting out laughing.

But come on.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Eliot said, snorting as she slowly turned a furious glare on him. “I can’t fucking relate to that at all.”

Kady let out a shocked breath before clicking her teeth closed, half-smirk painted on her mouth. “You know, I kinda heard it as I was saying it?”

Eliot raised his eyebrows, holding his hands out to present the shitty offering he was. But then he sighed and leaned in. “All I know is that Alice must really like you. She braved my wrath for it, after all.”

“God, you’re so fucking narcissistic,” Kady said, pinching her fingers up in the air and squeezing her irritated eyes closed.

“My reflection is lovely,” Eliot shrugged, unbothered, “what can I say?” 

At that, Kady snorted, maybe more amused than she would admit. 

Encouraged, Eliot smiled.

“Look, maybe you really are as shitty of a person as you think you are,” he said with a bored wave of his hand. “I certainly wouldn’t argue with you.”

Kady rolled her eyes. “Thanks, dude.”

Eliot rolled his eyes back. It wasn’t like he _ liked _ her now. This was for Alice.

“But even if that’s true, the way I see it—” Eliot gulped a breath, folding his hands on his lap. “Why punish your favorite person for it? Not their fault you suck. They deserve happiness, even if you don’t.”

It was oversimplification. But Eliot had overcomplicated shit for so long that a little overcorrection couldn’t hurt.

“That’s circular and self-serving,” Kady said, frowning and ticking her eyes up to the side as she thought it through. “But also weirdly convincing.”

“Describes all my winning arguments.”

Kady looked him dead in the eye. “You suck less when you talk to people without trying to be funny.”

Eliot didn’t really care what she thought of him, but it was fair feedback.

“Noted,” he said, lifting his brows and glancing away. He pressed his hands on his knees and started to stand, eyes drifting over to the clock (_ Oh, dear, would you look at the time? I have a thing _) but her intense eyes stopped him in his tracks.

Kady narrowed them, too knowing for his taste. “Well, are you gonna follow your own advice? Talk to him?”

Fuck it. Time to spread his shit even further. A veritable crop dusting.

“Planning on it,” Eliot said, standing and brushing invisible lint off his trousers. “When he comes back.”

“From break?”

“From a self-imposed exile because I broke his heart, twice,” Eliot said, matter-of-fact like his own heart didn’t disappear every time it came up. He furrowed his brow in performative thought. “Three times.”

He knew exactly what he fucking did.

But Kady didn’t have to know how much he knew. The facade was still a safe, dry place.

“Good job,” she said, snorting with derision. But when Eliot glanced over at her, Kady’s lips were gently quirked into an almost sympathetic smile.

Again, almost. But not quite.

He gave a quick, sharp grin. “Yeah, I try.”

They stared at each other, the gap of shit closing mere inches. 

But it was progress. For the first time, Eliot’s hatred felt dull, a gnawing ache and a pit of doubt, omnipresent. While he was sure that fierce kicks of acute rage would fire up again, in time, it would actually be nice if it happened less often. Both for Alice and himself.

Plus, it made the idea of talking to Q about it less terrifying. 

Quentin would be glad that Eliot wasn’t necessarily going to want to attack Kady Orloff-Diaz every single time they ran into her. Just half the time and then maybe down to a quarter of the time, after a few years. Which was the hypothetical minimum, realistically.

Peace was peace. Progress was progress.

Across from him, still slumped in the chair, Kady obviously made a similar calculation.

“Fine. I’ll talk to her. Make this shit—“ she gestured between the two of them with the vodka bottle “—worth something in the end.”

“I live to serve,” Eliot said with a mock salute, hand on the doorknob. He cleared his throat and flitted his eyes around her room one last time. It was still drab. “So, uh, I guess, I’ll see you around?”

“Sure,” Kady said with a shrug. “Don’t let the door hit you.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, hissing a breath through his teeth. He raised his eyebrows in a final acknowledgment. “Bye.”

But before he high-tailed it out of there, Eliot paused again, hand hovering over the doorknob, something raw and pinching stopping him. He really never_ could _ leave a tender moment alone. More importantly, though—

Eliot thought of Alice again. He thought about what she deserved. It almost rooted him to the spot.

“For what it’s worth, which I acknowledge may not be much.” Eliot said, spinning around one more time, much to Kady’s obvious chagrin. He smiled at his hands. “That girl needs a nice wooing in her life.”

Eliot could still picture that sweet, drunk, blonde Welters champ giving him shit about smoking and telling him he was _ the most handsome man _ and begging him to play matchmaker, straight outta _ Fiddler _. He could still remember how much his fondness grew, how she had crawled her way into his unwilling heart without realizing. It had seemed so silly at the time, a breath of fresh air in contrast to all his repressed shit. It had felt like frivolity, sparkling light and fanciful colors and wacky schemes.

But looking back, Eliot knew now that Alice had really wanted love, from the start. From him, from Brakebills, from the person she was looking for, from the whole of the future. She wanted to love and be loved, in every way possible. For years it evaded her. But fuck, she actually had the courage to ask for it that night, to ask for _ help _, however she could.

Alice had suffered through so little love in her life. She had seen her way through neglect, and loss, and isolation. It was wrong. It was unfair. Really, she should have been hardened and cruel, angry and spiteful. She had her sharp edges, that was for damn sure. But her heart of hearts was giving and _ good _, and so full of love, to give and to hope. 

So it was time for the scales to tip to her favor, if Eliot had anything to say about it.

(He swallowed around his tight throat, heart beating wildly.)

She deserved to be wooed.

Unsurprisingly, though, fuckin’ Kady Orloff-Diaz rolled her eyes and faked a gag. “Yeah, uh, I’m not a wooer.”

“Just a suggestion,” Eliot said lightly, biting down a nasty retort and turning out her door. He offered a cursory wave, a short farewell. “Hope you work it out. Really.”

As he stepped back out into the quiet hallway, Eliot thought he heard her say something back, muffled through the closed door. 

It sounded like _ Thank you, Waugh _. 

—Or maybe it was _ Fuck you, Waugh _. 

One of the two.

Either way, Eliot was mostly impressed that he reached the turn in the corridor before his legs gave out. 

Whole body shaking, he slid his back against the cool wall and tucked his knees into his chest, taking long steadying breaths as he rested his forehead to his knees. Panic was trapped between the bones of his rib cage. He could barely breathe. God, but he did it. He had faced the barrel of the gun and come away with only his skin singed.

He did it.

Free at last, Eliot supposed, laughing at the way his rings vibrated against his skin. He had forgotten to take them off the night before. Didn’t matter. Because more than fucking anything, his _ soul _ was vibrating with a crazed, irrational need to talk to exactly one person. His bones rattled painfully against his muscles with the thrumming beat of _ Is he okay is he okay is he okay _, even though Eliot knew he was okay because why the fuck wouldn’t he be?

He was supposed to be respecting his boundaries. Quentin said he would reach out. Not the other way around.

But like—

He _ had _, hadn’t he? Q had reached out. So maybe it was—maybe he could—

It wouldn’t hurt for Eliot to check in. Just one time.

Just this one time.

Scrambling for his phone with a wave of determination and not a little hysteria, Eliot slid his fingers over the touchscreen without much thought. Because, like, one text wouldn’t hurt, right? And Q could ignore him if he didn’t want to hear from him, right? And that wouldn’t crush all of Eliot’s organs to dust when that happened, right?

Right.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 9:48 AM _

_ gorgon eat you alive then? _

* * *

There.

A quick text, friendly and casual, Eliot thought as he pocketed his phone. Begin with a joke. No time urgency. No emotional strings attached. It was a follow up to their last conversation, a continuation, an ellipses. One without any pressure for—

Two seconds later, his robe vibrated.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 9:48 AM _

_ gorgon eat you alive then? _

_ Gorgons don’t eat people _

* * *

Eliot sat up taller and smiled, the glow of the screen illuminating so much more than the sun could ever dream.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 9:50 AM _

_ Gorgons don’t eat people _

_ there are many interpretations _

_ No, there aren’t _

_ scholars disagree _

_ What scholars? _

_ multiple scholars  
_ _ from renowned institutions _

_ If that’s true, they’re wrong  
_

* * *

Humming under his breath, Eliot tabbed over to his internet browser, typing in a few choice keywords. He had been an Edith Hamilton devotee once upon a time in his life and he could have sworn he remembered—

The results came back. He smiled all the brighter.

Bingo.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 9:56 AM _

_ uh oh, coldwater  
_ _ i fact checked your ass_

_What does that mean?_

_google ‘do gorgons eat people’ right the fuck now  
_ _ and tell me what it says about eyeballs _

* * *

A full minute ticked by without response. But finally, a message pinged its way onto the screen.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 10:00 AM _

_ Well, you’re not allowed to be on your phone  
_ _ So all findings are invalidated  
_ _ Mistrial _

* * *

The giddiness and the adrenaline and the _Quentin_ of it all nearly sent him pacing up and down the fucking hallway like a goddamn loon. But instead, Eliot hunkered down, slow and steady.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 10:02 AM _

_ well, a metaphor mixing pedant is a living pedant  
_ _ so you must have survived dinner at any rate_

_ At one point, I ordered a glass of wine  
_ _ My mom said, “This isn’t Europe, Quentin”_

_ what the fuck?_

_ Exactly my response  
_ _ Turns out, she thinks I am twenty (20) years old_

_ oh jesus  
_ _ you do have a spring chicken vibe_

_ She birthed me_

_ allegedly_

_ It was boring otherwise  
_ _ What’s the Brakebills hot goss?_

_ … the brakebills what now?_

_ That was ironic_

_ hot goss?_

_ It was a joke, Eliot_

_ HOT GOSS?_

_ Yeah yeah fuck you  
_ _ How’s Margo?_

_ she’s great  
_ _ livin’ that hot goss life_

_ Shut up_

_ :) _

_ Hey that’s my thing _

* * *

Eliot smiled. He missed him so much.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 10:10 AM _

_ no, i have a thousand stories  
_ _ to keep you entertained as needed_

_ Well, I have time  
_ _ If you do _

* * *

All the time in the world, sweetheart.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/26/16, 10:12 AM _

_ act i, scene i: the cottage living room_

_ Oh shit_

_ a panicked josh hoberman arrives  
_ _ he is covered in bright blue dust  
_ _ an angry penny adiyodi is hot on his heels_

_ Oh SHIT_

_ the words “victoria’s pussy!!!”   
_ _ screamed, echoing -- loud and vicious and brutal  
_ _ … but by which man?_

_ I already have to lay down _

* * *

Eliot wasn’t sure how long he sat there, typing and quietly laughing on the hallway floor, amongst the tracked in dirt and spilled stale beer. How long they passed stories back and forth, easy and comfortable and light, until Bambi kicked at his hip and told him to _ Get the fuck up _.

But he noticed the sun was shining a lot brighter through the windows.

* * *

tbc.


	10. A Small Band of True Friends, Pt. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2/3 of what I'm posting today!
> 
> Quick FYI: There is a short yet heavier discussion of Quentin's past suicidal ideation here. Take care. <3

** _Brakebills University, Late December, 2016_ **

** _  
*  
  
_ **

**(Part Seven of Our Fabulous Story, Continued, Entitled: Progress With An Asterisk)**

** _  
*  
  
_ **

* * *

Three days later, the two of them worked through it all, complete with a joyous reunion.

—Alice and Kady, that is.

Eliot found out when he walked out his door, notebook in hand, off to try a few deviations on his thesis practicum in the lab. If anyone had actually asked him though, he was off to work with rare materials, in the single-minded pursuit of creating a spring signature cocktail. In truest truth, both plans were kind of the same thing. Potato, po_ ta _ to. Tomato, to _ ma _to. Call that shit off, et cetera.

(He was bored.)

But as Eliot ambled down the corridor—definitely _ not _ rolling the theoretical application of microtelekinesis on wolfsbane and citric acid around his brain on an eidetic loop—he nearly reached the stairway when he came to a halting stop.

Atop the first step stood Alice, dressed in pink kitty cat pajama pants and a borrowed oversized tee, with Bowie’s Aladdin Sane face painted on the front. Her hair was tied back in a low loose bun—a rarer sight than Sasquatch—and her laugh-wrinkled nose was buried in Kady Orloff-Diaz’s cheek, a step below her, completely dressed for the day.

Kady laced their hands together and pressed a soft kiss to her lips, bright green eyes shining up. “Want me to bring you anything when I get back?”

“Yes, please. I’ll take a mug of,” Alice tilted her head, considering her options, before she smiled like the sun, “chocolate chips.”

Kady crossed her arms, mouth pressing into a flat and amused line. “You want a _ mug _, filled with—“

“Chocolate chips,” Alice said cheerfully, letting out a slight giggle. “That’s right.”

“I meant, like, I could get you coffee,” Kady said indulgently, wrapping her arms around Alice’s tiny waist and smirking. But Alice frowned, brow furrowing.

“Why would I want coffee when I could have chocolate chips?”

Kady bit lightly at the air just in front of Alice’s lower lip, before smiling wide. “Chocolate chips were never on the table, Blondie.”

“You said you’d bring me _ anything _,” Alice gasped, hand to her heart.

“In that exact breathless tone, for sure,” Kady rolled her eyes and kissed her before sighing. “Can I negotiate you down to a hot chocolate from the cafeteria?”

“I suppose,” Alice said, winding her arms atop Kady’s shoulders and buying her long fingers in her curls. She stared off in the distance, wistful. “Though I really wanted to savor each tiny melting morsel, like kisses from heaven.”

Kady laughed, a shockingly sparkled sound, big white teeth raising into the air as her head threw back. She shook out her hair and kept grinning, tugging Alice in close.

“You are so much fucking weirder than anyone would ever guess,” Kady said, delighted at the fact. Then she popped her eyes wide and twisted her lips into a resigned half grin. “I don’t even know where I would find chocolate chips.”

Alice frowned a little, though her eyes were warm under her glasses. She tucked Kady’s hair behind her ears and leaned forward to kiss her once, a tiny thing at the corner of her mouth.

“Aw. Don’t worry,” Alice said, twirling one of the dark curls around a manicured finger as she spoke softly. But then her lips slowly melted upward in mischief. “You’re smart and creative. You’ll figure it out.”

“Fine, I’ll bring you some goddamn chocolate chips,” Kady said with a snort, pressing their foreheads together and rubbing their noses. “But only ‘cause you’re so pretty.”

“Thank you,” Alice said, squaring her shoulders back with a shimmy of victory. But then, like a reflex: “I am also very capable.”

“No shit,” Kady said, breathing the words out. Then she kissed her again and waggled her fingers, descending the stairs backwards. “Bye.”

“Goodbye,” Alice said, leaning forward to chase one more kiss. Her voice evened out to its usual tone. “Hope your meeting goes well.”

Kady raised her eyebrows a touch sardonically and shook her head, communicating something Eliot couldn’t quite pick up. Probably wasn’t his business anyway, he considered. Sort of like how he was kind of a creep for just, like, standing there and watching them. 

But Eliot marveled at the sight nonetheless. And his own reaction, even more.

His heart rate hadn’t picked up, his hands hadn’t gotten clammy. Eliot felt almost_ —neutral _ about the whole thing, a remarkable advancement.

Huh.

As she turned away from Alice, the corner of Kady’s eye caught on Eliot and his objectively weird staring. She blinked once, a cloud passing over her expression. But then she pinched her brow and nodded, a curt incline of her jaw. He returned it, dipping his own down.

Following the line of Kady’s gaze, Alice spun around and startled backward at the sight of him. Eliot held his hand up in a small, awkward wave, not sure what else to do.

It was the first time they had seen each other since the Bad Night.

The air was thick and uncertain.

Kady surged forward and kissed the side of Alice’s head, lips moving in a whisper along her ear right after she did. Then with a final squeeze on her arm, Kady gave Alice a meaningful look, shot a casual salute off from her brow, and disappeared down the steps.

And then there were two.

“Eliot,” a soft and nasal voice echoed off the wall, tentative. Alice cocked her head and bit her lip, her usual stance, even without her usual armor. She looked comfortable though. For maybe the first time since he had met her.

(Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he was comfortable.)

“Hey Alice,” he said, taking a deep breath. His voice was friendly and warm. He had no reason not to be. “I didn’t know you were back.”

She gave him a small smile and shrugged a single shoulder up. “Needless to say, Stephanie and Daniel are best in small doses.”

“Understandable,” Eliot said, shifting on his feet. His heart rate sped up, just a little, and he swallowed. He hadn’t planned on talking to Alice today. But.

But maybe—

Eliot started to open his mouth, the soundless words jamming in his throat. Before he could form them into something intelligible though, Alice narrowed her eyes and flared her nostrils, like she had made a decision.

She stomped toward him, eyes laser focused ahead at Eliot and her fists clenched at her sides. She walked forehead first, like she was charging.

… Oh god, was this how he died?

Before Eliot could contemplate how to set a posthumous will leaving Margo his silk, Alice stopped right in front of him, inches away. Then with a sharp nod to herself, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a bright popping kiss right on his cheek.

And _ then, _if that weren’t surprising enough (it was), Alice slowly wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her head on his chest, gently and awkwardly—

Hugging him.

After a shocked, still moment, Eliot got with the program and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, quirking a happy and confused brow into the crown of her blonde hair.

“Kady told me you talked to her,” Alice said into his shirt, voice squished and muffled. “She told me everything. Thank you.”

Eliot felt his breath stutter, startled more by this quiet intimacy than if she actually had blasted his ass into another world. He tightened the hug and laid his cheek on her soft hair, breathing in her scent.

It was similar to, but _ so _ different than Margo.

Floral, but without sultry sweetness. Clean, like rose water and cotton, with maybe a hint of eucalyptus. It didn’t wrap him up in every memory of worthiness he had within him, it didn’t make him feel stronger than he knew he wasn’t. Yet it was still comforting. It gave his lungs buoyancy, in a new and interesting way. Like a colt finding its legs for the first time, before soon speeding off into a gallop.

“Well, when someone smarter than you kicks your ass in gear, it’s wise to take heed,” Eliot said, pressing his lips to the top of her head once, not quite a kiss. He hadn’t expected this to be so easy. Which, of course, meant that he owed her honesty. “Though I have to admit it wasn’t just for you.”

Always a wonder, that made Alice tip her head back and smile even brighter at him under her fogged glasses.

“I know. It means more because of that,” she said, soft grin tilting with her head. “You meant it.”

“I did,” Eliot confirmed, sweeping a few strands of gold away from her face. Then he sighed, legs wobbling. “It’s a work in progress.”

Alice frowned, eyebrows wrinkling. “Everything’s a work in progress until you’re dead.”

His own laugh surprised him. “Fair enough.”

“The work part is what matters to me,” Alice said, sweet and sincere. “The progress.”

“What about the _ in _?” Eliot focused his Most Serious Face down at her, defenses engaging. His stomach was churning and wild with screaming vulnerability. It was getting too raw, too quickly.

Alice didn’t give him an inch.

“Don’t be clever,” she said tersely, rolling her eyes. But she didn’t stop hugging him at least.

“Can’t help it,” Eliot said, all light on the outside. He cleared his throat and looked away. Alice sighed in his arms and then disentangled herself, staring up at him with an unreadable ferocity.

“This doesn’t fix everything,” she said in that blunt way she did.

Her cheeks flushed and her lips pursed as she stared him down, their short and intense and somehow wildly important history lingering between them. Eliot took her hands in his and brought them up to his lips, kissing them in reverence.

In honor of her.

“I know.”

Alice’s throat bobbed and her eyes looked a little wet as she kept staring at him. Her voice wavered, sniffing. “But I’ve missed you and I would like to talk to you about my life.”

Fuck if he wasn’t a little choked up too.

Eliot squeezed her shoulders and took a breath. “I’d like that, Alice.”

They stood there for a moment, smiling at each other and standing tall. The air turned light and dusted with sparkle, shit falling into place in ways you least expect. But Alice was nothing if not efficient, so she nodded once in acknowledgement and then patted his chest, all business.

“Good. Let’s meet at my room in five minutes?” She said it with the air of a well-organized office manager. He would be handed an itinerary. “I’ve had to pee for the last hour.”

—Though the last part was said with big pained eyes and a rolling of her lips into her teeth.

Eliot adored her.

“No, yeah. Do your thing,” he said with a laugh, waving her off. Far be it from him to keep her. “Thank you, five.”

Alice didn’t get the theatre joke and just blinked at him, like he said something utterly incomprehensible. But she didn’t deem it worth her time to parse through, because she shrugged and started to turn away, before lightly gasping.

“Oh,” Alice said, reaching toward his chest with a frown. “I got a foundation mark on your shirt.”

So she had.

“Shit,” Eliot said, fingering the smear with a frown of his own. It was sparkling in the white fabric. “Yeah, well, I’ll get it later.”

He was getting used to mess, it seemed. 

Sometimes mess was worth it.

Regardless, Alice winced, ever a polite and considerate person. “Sorry.”

“I’ve been through worse, darling,” Eliot promised her with a wink. “Hardly a tragedy.”

“I know. I’m still sorry,” Alice said with an eye roll. Then she glared at him, quite serious. “Not everything is a misery competition, Eliot.”

He nodded, big and expansive, as another bubbling of laughter made its way up his throat. Eliot licked his lips and touched her hand, a teasing little poke of affection.

“I missed you,” he said, meaning it from the bottom of his heart. His sincerity must have been clear to her because Alice smiled, one of her rarest and gentlest.

“Me too,” she said softly, sliding her hand against his, similarly playful. Then she widened her eyes again and hopped on her feet. “But I really, _ really _ have to pee.”

“Fucking go then,” Eliot said with a laugh, spinning her around by the shoulders and waving her off with a swat at the small of her back. As she scurried away, Alice shot him another glance over her shoulder and smiled wide and bright and affectionate again.

And Eliot walked to her pastel door, waiting.

* * *

**4\. Alice**

* * *

Over two hours later—and one semi-awkward delivery of semi-sweet chocolate chips in an oversized _ Paris is For Lovers _ mug from a bemused Kady—Eliot and Alice laid sprawled on her bed, with Eliot telekinetically tossing the chocolates up in the air to see who could catch the most in their mouths.

So far, Eliot was besting Alice 16 to 9 with seemingly several hundred more to go. And with only one unfortunate coughing fit due to a lodged chip down the wrong throat pipe to boot.

(Which of them it happened to was irrelevant.)

In all, a success.

Especially since, even as sober as they were—Eliot and Alice talked. 

They talked about the day they met. They talked about magic. They talked about Spain and Encanto Oculto, and the ways he let her down. They talked—_ around _what happened in April, in broad strokes. They talked about horses? They talked about Margo and how much Alice didn’t trust her. They talked about Julia and how Alice wished they were closer. They talked about whether they preferred cats or dogs (it turned out Alice was a Cat Supremacist, surprising no one.) They talked about magic. They talked about Brakebills South and that dickhead Mayakovsky. They talked about Fogg and Todd and battle magic and physical magic and whether all psychics were sociopaths or not (inconclusive.) 

Then, finally, they talked about Kady… and how happy she made Alice. Which, honestly?

Eliot was happy for her.

—Or at least, Eliot was getting there. 

Works in progress and all that.

As it turned out, Kady had actually taken Eliot’s advice and wooed the shit out of Alice, surprising her with a musical spell. Apparently, Kady wore a gold sequined dress and sang “All I Need is the Girl,” complete with full orchestrations and choreography, in the very room in which they currently sat.

It was a fuckton to process.

Anyway, when Eliot managed to pick his jaw up off the floor, it got even better, somehow. Alice breathlessly recounted how Kady slid onto her knees and into a fucking _ costume change, _to her usual army green and black as she crooned out a medley of 80s songs. Admittedly, that was more on brand.

Eliot would blow a rhino for the footage.

“It was the Heart song that sealed the deal in the end,” Alice said, successfully catching three chips on her tongue at once and pumping her fist to her chest. “Kady and I both love female-driven power ballads.”

Eliot chuckled at that and could see Kady in his mind’s eye, face all scrunched up and emoting as she implored Alice that until now, she always got by on her own. And Alice tearing up and clapping her hands to her mouth, like it was a revelation instead of the cheesiest fucking shit on the planet. 

Or maybe he was an asshole and it was cute. Either, or.

“And fun fact,” Alice said as a grand finale, eyes alight. “I think I might actually be a _ lesbian _.”

She held up one finger, academically in the air. It was just like Quentin and it made Eliot’s heart implode, an unexpected kick in the ribs. But he covered it up expertly because he knew how to do that from years of practice.

Besides, Eliot had a feeling this was something of a big moment. Definitely not about him.

He smiled and chuffed her under her chin. “Bold assertion, Ms. Quinn.”

“I’m nothing if not bold, Mr. Waugh,” Alice said with a corny waggle of her eyebrows. It was an artless movement, making her look more confused than anything. But Eliot understood the spirit in which it was meant and responded to that instead.

He laughed and tossed another chip all the way up to the ceiling. It spiraled down and he snapped it between his teeth, an expert. “You know, that’s actually true.”

Alice had disappeared into her thoughts though, biting her lip and flicking her eyes around.

“Or maybe I’m like you, I suppose,” she said, furrowing her brow. “Only where dick is like Thai food, rather than pussy.”

Eliot had never heard her say either _ dick _ or _ pussy _before and it made him grin. “Yeah?”

But Alice’s face went darker, more pensive. “Except, hmm, I love Thai food.”

“Ugh,” Eliot said, sticking out his tongue. “Too much peanut.”

“Your anti-peanut stance is horrifying,” Alice said with a flick of an annoyed finger. But then she brought it up to her chin, tapping as she thought. “But for me, maybe it’s more like, dick is—” She took a long deep breath and held her hands out in a grand proclamation “—Tex-Mex.”

Eliot _ adored _her.

He nodded, eyes wide and gleeful, repeating, “Dick is Tex-Mex?”

“Yes,” Alice said with a curt nod, flopping her head back on a particularly fluffy looking pillow. “That feels right. Dick is Tex-Mex.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” Eliot rolled onto his side and leveled her with his most cheekily serious look.

“Meaning, it’s _ okay _,” Alice said with pinched lips. “Like, it’s fine if you have to. If you’re stuck on a layover in Houston or something.”

Eliot lost his shit laughing.

And it was only when she started giggling with him that he realized she was actually _ trying _ to be funny. Eliot’s heart grew three sizes just to accommodate his fondness for her.

His own Cindy Lou Who.

Eliot sighed and curled into himself, tracing his eyes up and down her pretty face. “I’m sorry for everything, Alice.”

“I know you are,” she said, snuggling deeper into the cloud pillow. “I accept.”

“I’m glad,” he said, reaching over to take her hand. She accepted that as well, wrapping tiny and delicate fingers around his long, large ones. She squeezed his knuckles, their rings chiming together.

“Thank you again, Eliot,” Alice said quietly. The line of her throat spasmed as she swallowed and her eyes looked a little red. “Really, Kady told me you encouraged her to—”

“Trust me,” Eliot assured her, low and true. “That was all her.”

“It wasn’t just the songs,” Alice said, spinning to lay flat on her back. She stared up at her ceiling, face impassive. “We also spent a long time talking. At least two whole days of talking, crying, yelling, apologizing.”

Sounded like his worst fucking nightmare. “Sounds heavy.”

“It was,” Alice conceded, but she didn’t sound upset about it. If anything, she smiled. “But it was good. It was—affirming.”

Eliot stared down at his laced hands and swallowed. _ Be brave _. “Got any, uh—any tips?”

Alice frowned, staring at him from over the top of her glasses. “For what?”

“For a long, heavy, overdue, affirming conversations?” Eliot flicked his eyes up and away before bringing it back down to her with a watery smile. “How to not, like, totally fuck that up?”

He was getting practice. He was finding sea legs. But he was still so goddamn terrified of fucking it all up. Especially for—

Well.

Eliot sucked in a breath and closed his eyes. He couldn’t let the water overtake him now. He’d gone this far.

He had to see it through.

Meanwhile, Alice tucked her hair behind her ear and propped herself up on her palms, gazing over at him a little too knowingly. She shrugged once, a tiny jerk of her shoulders, and then she sighed, laying her hand back over his.

“I think you just need to say what’s in your heart,” Alice said, not meeting his eyes. But she smiled. “You have a big one.”

It was one of the kindest things anyone had ever said to him. He was terrible at accepting that.

“God, I really want to make a double entendre,” Eliot said quickly, with a sharp laugh. “But I’m trying to be a better person.”

“Trying is doing in this case,” Alice said, but not without smacking his chest. Fair enough. Then she looked away again, cheeks growing a little pink. “Anyway, I think as long as you try, Q will see that and appreciate it.”

Ah.

Eliot hadn’t said shit about Quentin.

So he snorted and stared at the ceiling, ever the fool. “You figured it out, huh?”

She arched a brow over a frown. “Figured what out?”

“That I—” Eliot ran his tongue across the razor smooth edge of his teeth. “That I have feelings for—”

“You mean, that you love Quentin?” Jesus, Alice said it so fucking _ casually _. She blinked and maybe bit her lip to tamp down a too big smile. “Oh. Uh. Yes, sorry. Some time ago.”

Eliot snorted. Of course. She was maybe the smartest person he had ever met and he had been such a goddamn idiot.

So he pressed his lips together and looked at her with nothing but curiosity. “When?”

Alice considered the question for a moment, pulling her lips down. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and slowly rolled her head over to look at him, eyes filled with warmth and sincerity.

“It was a subtle moment,” Alice said, speaking methodically in the memory. “Nothing special, in retrospect. You just—you looked at him and then you looked at me and you said—

She smiled, swiftly wicked eyes meeting his without hesitation, “_ Alice, this is Quentin. _”

There was a brat epidemic at Brakebills and Eliot had been made their keeper.

“Ha, _ ha, _” he said, stuffing a whole fistful of her chocolate chips in his mouth to spite her. She smacked his arm for good measure and grabbed the mug from his hands, keeping it close between her bosom.

“I’ve been trying to get you to admit it for awhile. You’re a lockbox,” Alice said, picking out a few misshapen chocolates and rolling them between her fingers. She once told him she liked to eat misshapen food so it felt like it had value to offer the world. He adored her.

But as she contemplated her sweet, Alice’s cheeks went fiery red and she averted her eyes. She cleared her throat and tossed her hair back, gaze glazing over.

“Also,” she squeaked out, fingers tightening around the mug. “Um, there is a chance that when you disappeared the first night at Encanto Oculto? I might have—used my, uh, locator spell on you.”

Eliot frowned for a second, not knowing what the fuck she was talking about. But then his synapses fired back with the answer, with a flash of a memory from Halloween.

The reason Alice had known that Eliot had left Mike’s to go back to the Cottage was because she had used her own spell invention, a combination of a classic locator-illusion spell and reflective phosphoromancy… which showed the exact visual location of the person you were seeking.

Which meant she most likely saw—

“Oh, no,” Eliot said with a bursting laugh.

“I’ve retired it,” Alice sputtered out, hands up in the air. Her ears were fucking fire engine red. “It’s—it’s very invasive. I won’t be using it again.”

Eliot laughed again and patted her shoulder, resisting the urge to cuddle the shit out of her in a way she would have hated. “I’d apologize, but you brought that on yourself, darling.”

“I’m aware,” Alice said, shaking her hands out and blinking rapidly. “I won’t make that mistake twice.”

Eliot chuckled again before leaning back and closing his eyes. He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face, a wave of unexpected exhaustion overtaking him.

“Well, I’m not sure I’m allowed to judge anyone’s mistakes, ever again,” he said, sliding his fingers across his stubble. He needed to shave but hadn’t really been assed lately. Bambi had been on his case, calling it his Depression Beard.

Harsh, but accurate. Except he wasn’t _ depressed _ so much as—

Heartbroken.

Because of shit he did, of course. His own damn fault, of course. Trying like fuck to fix it, of course.

But Eliot was heartbroken.

Sometimes it hit him like a bullet. He wasn’t sure if he deserved to feel it—suspected he didn’t—but there was only so much he could control. The waves of nausea, the pools of dread, the icy wind of careful apathy so he didn’t have a screaming meltdown were part and parcel to his eternal fucked upness. The absence of Quentin was everywhere, the fear of their unknown future haunted him. 

It sucked.

Eliot twitched his lips up at Alice under wavering and darting eyes, and she frowned. Her face was grave and frustrated, arms clamping over each other across her chest.

“Okay, so you made mistakes,” Alice said, reiterating the obvious. “So what, now, that’s it? You’re defined by that, forever? That’s bullshit.”

Eliot shook his head. “No, that’s not—I’m trying to do what Q said, you know? Learn and grow from my fuck ups. Make my _ reaction _ what matters, rather than the catastrophe I wrought.“

Alice rolled her eyes.

She huffed air out one side of her mouth and sat all the way up, to glare at him. “I know overwrought drama is a major factor in your preferred state of being, but may I recap?”

Eliot blinked. “Uh, sure?”

“You said some mean things to your friends, got too drunk too often, and struggled with being vulnerable in a romantic relationship,” Alice said, ticking each point off on her hand. “It wasn’t good, but it’s not like you committed insurance fraud. Give yourself a break, Eliot.”

(Insurance fraud?)

“You literally stopped talking to me over it,” Eliot said, folding his brow down, despite the lift in his heart at the marvel of Alice Quinn. “So it definitely pissed you off enough to make a difference.”

“I wasn’t _ pissed off _ so much as I was _ exhausted _,” Alice said, staring straight ahead as she thought her words through. “And I was definitely hurt. I thought you were my friend, but then you didn’t act like one at all.”

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said reflexively. Alice waved him off, still mid thought.

“I didn’t think you were the worst person in the world or anything,” she said, finally flicking a look over at him. It was softly calculating. “Just extremely immature and maybe not worth my energy.”

Um.

Motherfucking _ ouch _.

Eliot winced as Alice refused to gentle her words. “Brutal but fair.”

“I was voted Most Brutal But Fair in high school,” Alice said with a wink. Then she laughed, harsh and inward. “No, I’m kidding. I wasn’t voted anything. No one noticed me.”

“I doubt that,” Eliot said quietly, sitting up and jostling his shoulder against hers. “They didn’t know what to make of you. Rubes cower in the face of majesty such as ours, Ms. Quinn.”

He meant it, he didn’t mean it. It was truth, it was falsehood. They were the same, they were different as could be. The dichotomy of Eliot Waugh and Alice Quinn could probably be studied.

“All I’m saying is that you’re twenty-five,” Alice said, smoothing down her kitty cat pajamas and curling her legs under her. “You’re not a kid, but you’re allowed to not have it all figured out yet. I know I’d like room to make mistakes and find my way back.”

Eliot bit down on his teeth and his fingers twitched for a cigarette. “You’re nowhere near as shitty a person as I am.”

“Oh, that’s very sweet,” Alice said with a dark laugh. She sucked her cheeks in and stared ahead, stormy blue eyes off toward another planet. “But you have no idea what I’m capable of. _ I _ have no idea what I’m capable of. The kind of pain I could cause, if I wanted to or if I was pushed hard enough. I’m not just pretty horses and cotton candy, you know.”

“I know,” Eliot said, because he did. There were flashes of Alice that terrified him. The most dangerous person in the world. But. “But you choose to do good every day.”

“You’re giving me too much credit because you’re so hard on yourself,” Alice said simply. “Not because I’ve actually done anything worth that faith, beyond basic decency.”

“People undervalue basic decency,” Eliot said, lacing his fingers together and letting out a shaky breath. “It’s a lot fucking harder than it looks.”

Alice nodded once. “I agree with you.”

It was all she said. That was that.

It was the same thing she said to him a thousand years ago, the first day they met. It had opened the door to the weirdest friendship, the one Eliot had never seen coming, not in a million years. And it really was _ weird… _ and delightful and challenging and beautiful. It was just as important as anyone else he had ever loved.

Eliot felt his mouth slide into an unwitting smile as he looked at her, sitting curled up on her big and soft bed, with a patchwork quilt. Tiny crystal horses dotted every surface, reflecting the light she loved and the memory she held most dear. A dusty pink couch sat by the window under slanted golden light, perfect for reading her favorite books. Sweet pastel drawings hung in carefully chosen frames on her wall and butterflies danced overhead in cheerful lanterns. It was so Alice and _ so _very lovely.

He tilted his head at her, fondness bursting at the seams.

“Did I ever tell you about my childhood?”

Eliot experienced the words out of body, like a dream. He didn’t regret them as they tumbled out his mouth though. He smiled.

Maybe he would hate himself for it later, maybe he would turn to horomancy or memory spells, to take the information away from her. It was possible.

—He doubted it though.

When Alice gave him a confused look and shook her head, Eliot’s smile grew and his eyes closed. “I grew up on a farm. In rural Indiana.”

He felt Alice shift, heard a small hum from her throat before she spoke again. “I thought you said you were from—?”

“I’m sure I insinuated it,” Eliot finished, not sure what she was going to say. He had implied he was from all kinds of places. The Upper East Side. Dubai. Napa Valley. Royalty from another corner of the multiverse. Fuck, even Canada.

Of course, Eliot had never outright lied, but he had long ago learned how to make white space work for him. How to spin webs from what wasn’t said as deftly as his intricate speech. It wasn’t something he was proud of necessarily, but it was something that was. Would always be.

“Thank you for telling me,” Alice said, resting her hand on his knee. He opened his eyes and gave her a hesitant smile. She returned it, until her own face fell into anguish. “I suppose though, in the interest of full disclosure, I should also tell you that I didn’t really grow up in Chicago.”

Eliot’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair. Plot twist.

“Where did you grow up then?”

Alice bit her lip and shook her head. She bunched fabric between her palms with growing anxiety. “I grew up about an hour outside.”

Eliot opened his mouth once. Closed it. “What?”

“I grew up in a suburb called Long Grove,” Alice said quickly, mournful and ashamed. “I say Chicago to sound cool.”

What the fuck was she talking about?

Eliot laughed, half confused and half annoyed. “I don’t understand your point.”

It wouldn’t be like her to mock him for this, so there had to be something he was missing. At least, Eliot fucking hoped there was something he was missing.

“You felt bad for not telling the truth about where you grew up,” Alice said, widening her eyes behind her glasses. “So I wanted to correct my record too, even if it’s a smaller discrepancy.”

Eliot circled through a barrage of complicated emotions, before finally landing on tentatively amused and gently shocked at Alice’s complete inability to understand the massive thing he had just shared with her. It was one of those things that was _ almost _ charming, _ almost _endearing about her. But, like, not quite because—

—What?!

“Yeah, but it’s not—I wasn’t hiding _ Indiana _ , per se,” Eliot said slowly, carefully. “I was hiding that _ I _ grew up on a _ farm _ in _ In-di-ana _.”

Her innocent owl look increased to anime levels. “As opposed to?”

Eliot laughed again, louder and fuller. He felt like he was floating in zero gravity. “Alice, I want everyone to think I come from a wealthy background when I’m really a podunk farm boy.”

That was the fucking thing. That was the start of all his fucking shit. Literally goddamn _ all _of it.

“But why would I ever care about where you came from, Eliot?” Alice slammed her hands on her thighs, apparently genuinely annoyed. “What matters is who you are now.”

Eliot took a deep breath and prayed for patience. He brought his fingers to his lips and bowed once, in respect for her fervor.

“That’s very kind of you to say,” Eliot said and Alice glared at his patronizing tone. “But I’m trying to share private and personal information with you because you are my dear friend.”

“Why is that private?” Alice wrinkled her nose. “What does it—?”

Eliot scratched between his brow and let out a shaky growl, the enormity of what he just did starting to claw its way up his chest and throat. 

“Alice, seriously, only Margo and Q know this about me. I don’t tell people because it’s—I don’t tell people anything about my past. Ever.”

“Oh,” Alice said, face shifting and startling. “Oh. So that’s—oh.”

_ Oh _, indeed.

Eliot made a frustrated sound and cupped her cheeks, patting them twice. She was so smart, but also so—

She was so book smart.

“On top of that, Margo only found out because she was my Trials partner. And I was completely hammered when I told Q,” Eliot said, ducking his head to match her gaze, fire for fire. “You are the first person to hear it in a sincere, sober, and uncoerced capacity. For the sole reason of wanting to share it with you, okay?”

Alice was silent for a moment.

She looked at Eliot, unmoving. Then her lower lip began to tremble and her eyes watered, brimming and blurred. Her eyes looked like water in a Monet. Eliot’s racing, panicked heart started to slow as she reached her hand across the bed and held his, a gentle affirmation.

“Thank you, Eliot,” Alice choked out, running her tongue along her lips. “I just—thank you for sharing that.”

He squeezed her hand back. “You’re welcome.”

She sniffed and closed her eyes, shaking her head. “Thank you for being my friend.”

“I adore you, Alice,” Eliot said before he could let himself get swept away in the heartbreak of that sentence. He also said it because it was true. He really did adore her, with all his heart.

Of course, there was another way he could have phrased it. A braver way. But shit didn’t change overnight.

Things didn’t get easy overnight. He still had work to do. It was okay that he still had work to do, in this moment. And if there was anyone who could really understand what that meant, anyone who would be the first to tell him that it actually _ was _ okay, as long as he was really doing the work—

It was Alice. Who he adored.

She leaned forward into him and wrapped him another hug, the most they had ever really touched in a short time. Eliot kissed her forehead and they held each other, quiet and serene.

Then Alice’s gold glittered eyes (she loved makeup, he always forgot) blinked up at him and she hummed, her chin against his chest.

“Charlie would have liked you, you know,” she said, studying Eliot’s features. “He definitely would have really liked your parties.”

“I’m flattered,” Eliot said, snorting gently. But Alice just widened her smile and squeezed their entwined hands.

“But Charlie really would have loved how happy I am, finally,” she said, swallowing. “And he would have been so grateful to you for your part in that.”

Overwhelmed with a burning in his eyes and chest, Eliot found himself without words. So instead, he pulled Alice in toward him again, burying his face in her hair. He lingered there for a moment before he squeezed her hand again and smiled down at her. She beamed back up, and all was well.

But then Alice frowned a little, a frenetic consideration of her words overtaking the warmth in her eyes.

“Not that grief and self-acceptance isn’t an ongoing process, and I don’t anticipate that this is—“

As she sputtered out a thousand disclaimers, Eliot laughed and shushed her, his darling friend. Then he telekinetically called over the mug of chocolate chips and waggled it at her.

“Best out of the ten?” Eliot asked, arching a brow. “Winner owes the other—”

“A hot fudge sundae,” Alice cut herself off to growl out, fierce and fiery, with no room for argument. “With gummy bears.”

He blinked. “Uh, sure.”

Whatever.

Alice grit her teeth and narrowed her eyes. “Then you’re _ on _ like Donkey Kong.”

And just for that incredibly dorky turn of phrase—

Eliot let her win.

* * *

**~**~  
  
**

** _Brakebills University, December 31, 2016  
  
_ **

*  
  


**New Year’s Eve**

* * *

Unlike Christmas, the New Year’s holiday transcended _ gauche. _

Its delectable and shimmery and fizzy splendor brought it to new heights, making it cheesy in every delicious way_ . _ Then, of course, every year it crashed back down to become _ gutter garbage, _in its mascara smudged, broken tooth bullshit. But like an equal parts glittery and alcohol-soaked phoenix, it always managed to rise again from Dick Clark’s ashes as a decadent excuse to throw a fantastic party. Eliot loved it with his whole heart and soul, the only relationship he had ever truly committed to in his entire life.

So any other year, he would have thrown himself full throttle into planning. Especially when shit was so fucked up, New Year’s Eve would have been the perfect distraction. For the past two years, Eliot had single handedly managed to transform the Cottage—nay, the whole damn _ campus _ —into a silver sequined altar to debauchery. He knew how good the parties were by how little he remembered them. Because if Eliot Waugh could manage to black out, _ twice _, then you knew you had something special.

Unfortunately though, Eliot Waugh was now at a crossroads, where he found he wanted to remember things more than he wanted to forget them. It was an uncomfortable feeling, like a cheap wool blend sweater without an undershirt.

He also wasn’t giving into the urge to find distractions, to obsess over the way a drink glinted in the light. He wasn’t choosing every song in a particular order, with any change or request punishable by certain death. He wasn’t already swigging champagne from the bottle and tying his favorite black silk bowtie with more care than a mother bird to its fledgling.

Instead, Eliot automated all that shit and curled himself into the corner of a couch, eyes glued on a tiny bright screen and thumbs twitching helplessly as he waited to type more and more.

* * *

** _SMS with “Quentin”  
_ ** _ 12/31/16, 2:15 PM _

_  
_ _ Fuck talking on the phone  
_ _ Texting means I get to think my thinks through _

_ not to mention the aestheticism  
_ _ cultivate yet another visual medium _

_ Is that why the lowercase?  
_ _ I assumed it was you being lazy as shit _

_ excuse you  
_ _ it’s much harder to type in all lowercase  
_ _ because of autocorrect _

_ You go back and change your texts?  
_ _ To all lowercase?  
_ _ On purpose? _

_ oui  
_ _ oui  
_ _ et oui _

_ Why not just turn off autocorrect? _

_ art is suffering  
_

_ You are a ridiculous human being  
_ _ So what’s wrong with capital letters exactly? _

_ ugh don’t get me started _

_ There are good capital letters! _

_ exclamation point?  
_ _ you feel strongly about this _

_ Yeah, I do  
_ _ For instance  
_ _ “J” is a good capital letter _

_ horrible _

_ “M” _

_ disgusting _

_ It’s symmetrical! _

_ more like pointy and discordant  
_ _ try again next time (!) _

_ “A” _

_ is for ‘assault’ _ _  
_ _ of the ocular variety _

_ Ooh I have a good one _

_ doubt it _

_ What about _

_ “Q” _

_ … _

_ ??? _

_ fine there’s one good capital letter  
_ _ but that was cheating _

_ :) _

_ oh fuck off :) _

_ I’m actually surprised you hate phone calls  
_ _ Figured you’d always want a chance to talk  
_ _ And talk and talk and talk and talk... _

_ you say that, jeering & mocking _

_ Synonyms _

_ yet the world is blessed for my dulcet voice _

_ Yeah, well  
_ _ Truer words, I guess  
_ _ :) _

_ i’m sending you to brat gitmo _

* * *

The gray box with an ellipses popped up and Eliot could _ feel _ the playful indignation, the overthought cleverness pouring out of deft fingers a world away. His fingers and toes tingled with anticipation, headier than many (any) of the highs he had ever experienced. At the risk of being cliche, Eliot felt like a schoolboy. It was remarkable mostly because he had never even really been a fucking schoolboy. Not like this.

But just as Quentin sent another text—something overcomplicated about the selection process for a jury because Q was fucking nerd—sweet and tiny arms wrapped around his neck from behind. A sticky lip gloss mark stuck to his cheek where Margo kissed him.

“Hey honey,” she said against his temple, purring.

“Hi pumpkin,” Eliot said distractedly, trying out a new thing. He didn’t look up from his phone as he continued to text Quentin back the Brat Geneva Protocol because apparently Eliot was a fucking nerd too. When the hell that happened, he couldn’t say. Maybe Quentin had always been right about him.

His chest warmed with a smile at the thought.

With an annoyed huff, Margo flopped down beside him and flicked his ear, unimpressed with both the nickname and lack of attention. Noted. He shot out a quick _ HRH approaches and requires my deference _ to Quentin and clicked the phone off. Then he turned his face to her, dragging his eyes to her gorgeous face with rapt focus.

Bambi smirked and ran her long fingernails up and down his arm. “How’s Q?”

Eliot froze, fingers spasming around his phone. It vibrated with a new text and he forced his composure, forced himself not to whip it up to his face.

“Hm, I’m sure he’s fine,” Eliot said instead, instinctively reaching over for a glass to sip, projecting his usual calm coolness. But he didn’t have one so he gripped at air. Shit. “I’ve heard from him every now and then. Seems good.”

“Uh-huh,” Margo said, kicking her legs up on the couch and tossing her hair behind her shoulders, defiant. “I’ll ride your dick right now if you haven’t been texting him for the last three hours.”

Eliot kissed her forehead and sighed. He never could hide shit from her. “That obvious?”

“You have a dopey ass smile all over your face,” Bambi said, thumbing at him under his chin. At the sour look that replaced said smile, she rolled her eyes and settled into the crook of his neck. “Don’t worry, it’s dopey in, like, a cute way. Mostly.”

“We’ve been talking a lot,” Eliot said, heart expanding and lifting as he drew patterns on her arm with his fingers. She was wearing fine black silk from head to toe, her casual wear before whatever magnificent party dress she was sure to debut later. She looked perfect, as always.

His perfect Bambi.

But then Eliot’s phone vibrated against on his thigh again. He moved with catlike reflexes to telekinetic it the _ fuck _ out of Margo’s reaching grasp. It slid into safekeeping, and she glared at his ticked brow. 

Fool him once.

“What?” Margo shrugged, unapologetic. She slumped down in lazy, gorgeous defeat. “I’m just curious about the evolution of your beautiful love story.”

How uncharacteristically sweet of her.

Then Bambi grinned, “Plus, I’m always on the lookout for new blackmail fodder.”

And there it was.

“All you need to know is that we’re talking a lot,” Eliot said, wrapping his fingers into her hair and massaging her scalp. She hummed, all forgiven. “Like, _ a lot _.”

His heart sparked against his ribcage, tiny flashes of white heat and the kindling of hope flying out with every beat.

“That’s good,” Margo said emphatically, staring up at him upside down. “That’s a good sign, El.”

Eliot stretched a tight smile across his face and cracked his neck.

It was and it wasn’t.

Quentin and Eliot had reached an equilibrium. They were joking around, passing quips back and forth like they always did. They checked in on Brakebills _ goss _ and debated the merits of different Bowie albums. Quentin had typed a big ass essay to him when Eliot had mentioned wanting to go see the new Star Wars spinoff or whatever, the one with the girl from the thing. It was easy and natural and set him on delicious fire every time, until—

Until even a hint of anything real came up or Eliot tried to coax a return date out of Q.

Then the gray ellipses halted and his phone may as well have been a dead block of metal.

So because Eliot was a coward by nature, he stopped trying and pushed down the smothering anxiety as far down into the pit of his stomach as he could. He could live with an ulcer if it meant he could talk to Q.

“Quentin isn’t coming back tonight or anything,” Eliot said carefully, aiming for his practiced ease. But he was still trying to be more honest with Margo, as a rule. “So it’s more like progress, but with an asterisk.”

Margo bit her lip and cast her eyes away, her own version of practiced carelessness. Eliot wasn’t sure what it meant that they could read each other like books, but still pretended they weren’t even literate.

(Progress and asterisks all around.)

Bambi closed her eyes, long lashes hitting her cheek. “Why don’t you go to him?”

Eliot had a small version of a panic attack at the very thought.

“I can’t do that,” he said, voice coming out tight and sweaty, somehow. “He’s—I mean, he’s home.”

Margo picked up his hand and traced her fingernail around each finger, in a swirling pattern. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t even open her eyes.

“No, he’s not home, you know that,” Margo said softly. Eliot swallowed over a lump in his throat as she kept talking. “But you could go sweep him off his feet, dazzle him with your good looks and charm. Maybe finally take him on that date I know you’ve secretly master planned.”

Eliot tucked her head under his chin and breathed her in, the scent of her special floral-and-spice holiday perfume calming his jumping nerves.

“It’s too cold for that right now,” he said thoughtfully. “There’s a rooftop bar and a bridge walk involved.”

“Of course there is,” Bambi snorted. But then her cool hand wrapped around his wrist and squeezed, not forceful but not gentle either. “You gotta put yourself out there a little now, El.”

His molars tightened with his chest. “I’m trying to respect his boundaries.”

“By sleeping with the phone on your pillow?” Margo kept a light tone, danger lurking beneath. “Playing the _ No, you hang up _ game?”

“We’re texting,” Eliot said quietly, the words ringing hollow in the air around him. “That’s all.”

“I don’t think _ That’s all _ exists as an option when it comes to your interactions with Quentin,” Margo said, sharp and accurate as always. There was a fucking reason they didn’t talk about shit. She was so much smarter than him. He never stood a chance.

It was annoying.

So Eliot lit another cigarette to smoke away his annoyance. He was giving up drinking to excess, not all vices. _ Lord make me chaste, but not yet. _

“I don’t want him to think I’m not listening to him,” Eliot said as he let the smoke linger in his starved lungs, closing his eyes. “If he’s not coming here, then he’s still too pissed off.”

Margo pinched the skin on his forearm, right below his rolled shirt sleeve. “Or Quentin doesn’t want to face what he thinks is going to be _ acute pain _ and _ heartache _any sooner than he has to.”

Eliot opened his mouth to protest, hands shaking around his cigarette, but Margo cut him off. 

“He said he would reach out when he was ready. He reached out. He’s fuckin’ ready.”

Insides shaking with a tinniness he could feel in his goddamn teeth, Eliot sat up and shook his head until a lock of his hair fell across his face.

It just—it wasn’t the right time, okay?

Like, it just. It wasn’t. Because Eliot felt like it wasn’t—

Margo didn’t—

What he meant was that it wasn’t so simple—because he—because they—

His jaw muscles worked in ripples and Eliot smoked again, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I gotta make sure that I really finished my quest before I do anything rash.”

“It’s an interesting thought,” Margo said cryptically. But then she stroked her thumb along his brow, murmuring as gently as she could. “But no more bullshit, remember?”

His heart rushed in waves toward his ears; the same waves that had ripped at his ankles and strangled his breath in the violent tide since Ibiza. Eliot stared down the straight line of his cigarette, all the way to the edge of the world.

He found his voice in a whisper. “What if I lost my chance, Margo?”

Fear spiderwebbed his chest, a crack in the ice. Eliot resisted the urge to bury his face in his hands, hiding in his sweaty palms and burning ash and all his self-inflicted despair. But beside him, the heat of Margo sat up straight, her brown eyes hooded and discerning as she looked him up and down.

“I thought you said you don’t have any expectations,” she said, without any particular inflection. He flinched.

“I don’t,” Eliot said, because he didn’t. He didn’t. But. “But.”

Bambi pushed the errant curl back and sighed, gazing at him knowingly. “But you’re hoping.”

And wasn’t that a fucking bitch and a half?

“I’m _ really _ hoping,” Eliot admitted, quietly and fervently. He inhaled smoke and let it out on a shaky, laughing breath. “If I’m wrong then—I don’t know what I’ll fucking _ do _, Margo. I’ll—”

Bambi plucked the cigarette out of his mouth and brought it to her painted lips with a wide grin. She rolled her eyes and nudged him.

“You literally have nothing to worry about,” she said with a snort, pointing toward Eliot’s dick with the ashy end of the cigarette. “That boy is going to jump on you so goddamn fast—”

“I know you’re trying to be supportive and I appreciate it,” Eliot said tersely, not actually feeling appreciative but trying to be less of an asshole generally.

“Yeah, you sound grateful as fuck,” Bambi said, twisting her lips into a smirk.

Eliot took a deep breath, summoning all his patience into a line down the column of his spine.

“I’m asking for real,” he said, hyper aware of the thump of his pulse in his throat. He flicked his desperate eyes away from anything tangible. “What if I lost my chance? What the fuck will I do?”

His stomach twisted into knots, hands shaking as he stared and stared into a blinking point, black and white flashes of nothing crossing over his vision. He was dizzy. He wanted a drink. And worst of all, fuck, tears were crawling up his throat again, threatening to make him break down in front of the whole goddamn Cottage.

Eliot was so tired of the whiplash. He wanted Quentin to come home. He wanted to disappear forever. He wanted all the questions to end. He wanted them to stay unanswered forever. Because then at least he could live in denial, in limbo, without real risk. He was pathetic. He was—

“Honey, look at me.” 

Eliot sighed and lifted his heavy eyelids, brows raised in gentle anticipation of a Bambi tongue lashing. She puckered her lips and growled from the back of her throat, full hair framing her delicate face like a lion’s mane.

“If that happens, which I really don’t think it will—” She held up her finger to stop his anticipated protest “—but if it does, then… ”

Margo blinked, holding back a wave of emotion that passed over her face. She sniffed and placed both of her hands on his face. 

“If it does, then you fucking scream, okay?” Bambi growled, intense. “You go out to your goddamn woods and you _ scream _ at the top of your goddamn lungs.”

That advice sounded like it would help Margo more than Eliot. But Eliot appreciated the effort, so very much. So he quirked his lips up into a sad smile to show his honest appreciation and leaned his cheek into her touch. With a gentle smile of her own, Margo exhaled and kissed his forehead, before taking his cigarette and stabbing it into an ashtray.

Then she turned back to him, vigor renewed.

“Then once you do that? You go on a fuck spree,” Bambi said, driving her index finger hard into her thigh for empahsis. “I’m talking about you fucking every single fuck boy you need to fuck until you can’t fuck anymore.”

Eliot laughed, awed at her perfect zeal, even if the idea she was positing made him sick to his stomach. His Bambi had gumption, that was for sure. He dared a man to say otherwise. 

Encouraged, Margo bit her lip and shimmied her shoulders at him, leaning in conspiratorially.

“And then once your dick is all floppy from exertion, you and I will take a portal to, like, Santa Fe,” Margo said, breathless and exuberant, “where we buy a bunch of fuckin’ turquoise, drive through the high desert in a tiny convertible, and go skinny dipping in Georgia O’Keefe’s reservoir all night long until we’re one with the stars.”

For the first time, Eliot kind of hoped Quentin would turn him down.

It lasted exactly one microsecond before the knives of existential dread and the impending crush of his blood vessels and newfound hope threatened him anew. But still, it happened. And Margo made it happen, the crafty bitch.

“Um, okay, but can we do that anyway?” An elegant solution, if Eliot did say so himself. “Even if things work out the way I want?”

Bambi nodded, clearly having sold herself on the idea too. But then she raked a hand through her hair before scooting closer to him and wrapping her tiny arm in his.

“But I know that no matter what happens, no matter how much it fucking sucks, you’ll dust yourself off,” Margo said softly, taking his hand in hers and squeezing tight. She turned her face to look him in the eye. “You’ll dust yourself off and you’ll _ survive _. Nothing is going to break you, baby. Not only because you’re already so resilient, but also because I won’t fuckin’ let it. I’ll cut a bitch first.”

Eliot had never deserved her, not for one single second.

He brought her hand up to his lips and kissing her knuckles. Her eyes went soft and she brushed her thumb along the bow of his lips, gazing endlessly at him with the kind of affection he never thought he would see. Not in this lifetime.

She let out a shaky breath and kissed his lips once, short and sweet, before saying, “The _ bitch _being you, by the way.”

Light shone from Eliot. “I love you, Margo.”

“I love you too, honey,” Margo said, rubbing their noses together. Then she grinned. “Time to stop being a cock.”

* * *

**5\. Quentin**

* * *

It wasn’t exactly what one would call a best laid scheme.

But mice and men could go fuck themselves, Eliot thought wildly as he scrambled through his closet, throwing every single shirt he owned onto the bed in front of Bambi.

The plan was simple. Eliot would dress up, show up, and fall down at Quentin’s feet, showering him in sweet flowers and sweet nothings that meant everything. No turning back, no bullshit, no more waiting. It was time to ring in the new year right. It was time to shoot for the moon and maybe land amongst the stars, as his least favorite quote of all time nonsensically went. The truth was, it was time. And it was his turn. Quentin had put himself out there so many times and no matter what happened, Eliot had to offer him reciprocation. Even if that reciprocation was Quentin crushed Eliot’s heart this time.

He couldn’t think about that though. Because Eliot had built up to this point, for two weeks. For months, years, his whole life. It was time.

And he was ready as he would ever be. 

Currently, though, Eliot was bare chested and heaving adrenaline rushed breaths, glancing over at his mirror every three seconds on a panicked loop.

His hair looked fine.

Well, it looked okay. 

He wanted to slick it back, but instead it was that artful mess of curls, parted off to the side. Eliot found the style too boyish sometimes these days, but Quentin seemed to like it. At least, as far as Eliot could tell. He was mostly basing it on the three times they hooked up and how Q’s hands had tangled between the strands, fingers messing them up and tugging Eliot closer, lips soft and pliant against his, tiny little moans from the back of his throat—

He was getting off-track.

His hair looked fine.

“Which shirt?” Eliot shot over, a hot fizzing fuzz of nerves rushing all across his skin. Bambi glared up at him, still carefully considering each option from the giant heap.

“I haven’t decided,” she said way too slowly. “You have to look dressed up, but not so much that you intimidate him. He’s our delicate little nerd flower.”

Eliot huffed and crossed his arms, so they would stop shaking. “Interesting analysis, but I don’t have all fucking night.”

Margo bared her teeth and growled, “I’m sorry, do you want help or do you want to show up in the wrong shirt?”

“I’m not even sure Quentin cares about the goddamn shirt,” Eliot said with a wild laugh. He rested his palms on top of his head and started pacing. “He definitely does not care about the goddamn shirt.”

“You care about the goddamn shirt,” Bambi said practically, accurately, annoyingly. “Besides, Q only _ thinks _he doesn’t care about the goddamn shirt. But if he fell for you, he does. It’s all part of the Eliot Waugh experience, baby.”

Oh god, Margo was right.

Quentin cared about the goddamn shirt.

He cared about the goddamn shirt in, like, a subconscious way. Which meant that Eliot could definitely choose the wrong goddamn shirt and ruin everything because he didn’t take his time, because he wasn’t patient, because he—

“I don’t think I can do this,” Eliot said, slamming onto the foot of his bed with his face buried in his hands. “I can’t do this. I’m gonna fake my own death instead.”

“El, that can’t be your go-to anymore,” Bambi said with a yawn, over the sound of high-end fabric shuffling against each other. “It was a fun fantasy while it lasted, I’ll admit, but—“

He cut her off with a guttural yell and fell backwards, desperate as he stared up at her. “Just a pick a goddamn shirt, Margo, _ please _.”

Soft, clean cotton landed on his face in a wave. The movement telegraphed annoyance without disturbing the fabric. A true private love language if Eliot knew one.

He sat up and held the shirt delicately between his hands, scrutinizing her choice through squinted eyes. He thread the edge of the sleeves through his fingers. He frowned.

“It’s white.” _ It’s boring. _

But Margo only lifted her chin, a soft smile on her lips. “You look good in white.” Then the clincher. “Quentin thinks so too.”

Eliot was such a schoolboy. His heart raced. “Based on what?”

“One time when you wore white, I remember Quentin said, _ That’s not fair, white makes me look like a zombie with a bad hair day _,” Margo said with a fond roll of her eyes. “You gotta read between the insecure lines.”

“Not sure what his hair has to do with any of that,” Eliot said, as though his smile wasn’t shining off his face. “But fine, you’ve convinced me.”

He slid his arms into the cool fabric, shaking his shoulders into the fit. Margo rolled onto her stomach and propped her chin on her palm, tugging her red lips into a frown.

“He was probably having a bad hair day,” she said, considering. She gave him a nod of approval as he tucked his buttoned shirt into his trousers and slid on a leather belt.

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Q doesn’t have bad hair days.”

“Yeah,” Margo said, a little mournfully. “He has great fuckin’ hair.”

Eliot held up a few vests, scrutinizing them under the light. “It’s kind of obnoxious.”

“It’s so obnoxious,” Margo agreed vehemently, sticking her tongue out. “Sometimes I want to shave it off? To see what he would look like?”

Eliot crossed the room in a snap and opened his closet, revealing all his neatly organized accessories. He shot a quick glance at her over his shoulder, batting his lashes.

“I’d massacre your home village,“ he said lightly, before moving onto more important matters. “Which tie?”

Margo shook her head. “Vest, no tie.”

Eliot gaped at her.

“_ No _ tie?” That was not his plan. But she glared at him, because Bambi did not like repeating herself. He clicked his mouth shut, jaw tense. “Fine.”

As Eliot put on his vest—_ sans _ tie, like a goddamn seventies swinger or something—Margo tilted her face into her palm and looked him up and down.

“So you’re really doing this?”

He shot her a wry grin. “Yes. Based on your insistent advice. About twenty minutes ago.”

She waved him off, before getting to what she really wanted to ask. “Do you know what you’re going to say to him?”

He stuttered out a breath. Smoothing down the lines of his vest, he watched his hands move downward, fluid and precise. A pregnant pause settled on his room, full of fear and hope.

“I know what I’m going to say,” Eliot said after a moment, simple as that.

He looked up at her and met her eyes. He didn’t elaborate further and Margo didn’t push him. Eliot was grateful for that. He loved sharing with her, as much as he loved sharing with anyone. But that part was just for Q.

Margo pushed herself up and sat on her knees, stretching her arms up. There was something exacting about her movements, something a little forced. Eliot noted it as he adjusted his collar, but didn’t dwell too long. If Bambi had something to say, she would say it. Eventually.

“More pressingly,” Bambi said, arching a brow, “how the fuck are you going to get there?”

Eliot smiled at his endlessly pragmatic girl. “I’ll portal into the city and take a train or a cab.”

He heard the flaw in the plan as the words came out of his mouth. But Margo’s reflexes were viper-like and she spoke before he could backtrack.

“On New Year’s Eve?” She screwed her face up and put her hands on her hips. “Did you inhale paint fumes?”

Margo was obviously right. But she didn’t have to be so _ rude _about it.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving campus tonight, let alone traveling to New Jersey,” Eliot snapped. “Not like I had time to plan the finer details.”

Bambi shook her head. “Bitch, that’s basic critical thinking.”

Again, she wasn’t wrong. Eliot snarled at her anyway.

“Shit,” he said, staring around his room like he might find the answer. And he kind of did, thinking about the portal to Lisbon in his closet. “Wait, there’s a portal in Montclair, isn’t there? The one on Quentin’s street?”

Bambi smiled, like she had been waiting for him to get there. “There is.”

“Is that the one you used last week?” Eliot confirmed and grinned wide at her answering nod. “Do you remember the key?”

Margo offered back an oddly dim smile. “I do.”

“Can it be built out from Brakebills instead of the city?”

“It can.”

“Okay, great,” Eliot said, clapping his hands once. His feet were on fire as he walked back and forth, twitching his hands with magic. “Then, let’s connect it downstairs and I can stop to grow some flowers before going to—” He swallowed, throat tight and eyes blurry “—going to find Q.”

He was doing this.

He was fucking doing this. His hands continued to shake, but his heart was full. It was time he shared some of the love he felt, at long last. He sniffed and brought his bright eyes over to Margo, his beautiful first love, and smiled at her.

Eliot was _ doing _ this.

In turn, Margo slowly stood up and pressed her lips together, reaching up to stroke his cheek.

“Oh, honey,” she said softly, before sighing, resigned. “No. I’m not going to help you with that.”

The record scratched and Eliot frowned. 

“Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to help you build out the Montclair portal,” Margo said, slowly, like perhaps he was stupid. Eliot breathed in harsh through his nostrils and begged the gods for patience. He opened his mouth once and then closed it, bringing his fingers to his lips in a prayer.

Again, for patience.

“Look, I know I’m supposed to pretend you didn’t go there for a few days and I think I’ve done pretty well,” Eliot said, clipped. “I mean, I didn’t even ask if you saw Q or not, but—”

“Hey,” Margo said urgently, tightening his fingers around his jaw. “I would have told you if I saw Q.”

His insides wavered with gratitude at that assurance, but his brain was on a mission. There was an obstacle in his path. Eliot needed to charm, convince, or coerce.

“So then, what?” He twitched his eyebrows together, playing at concern. “Is the key too complex that you—can’t?”

… Or condescend.

“Of course I can, you dick,” Margo pushed him hard enough that he rocked back into his chest of drawers, stubbing the back of his heel. He winced in pain through his teeth, but at least he was getting somewhere real.

“Then it’s fair to say I’m confused,” Eliot said firmly. Margo sucked in a breath and pushed her hair back, pressing out her chest into a power stance.

“Remember your quest?”

“Sure do,” Eliot said, simperingly. “This is kind of the culmination.”

“Hmm,” Bambi said, pouting up at him. “Is it?”

“Yes, Margo.”

“You’re not missing a step?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Margo clenched her jaw like _ he _ was being the frustrating one. “No one else you need to talk to?”

Eliot was going to scream the building down. He wanted a drink. But he opted to stand at his full height and glare down at Margo with all the power he had in his frame, arms crossed and eyes flashing.

“Enough with the cryptic bullshit,” he said, flat. “I don’t have the patience right now.”

Understatement. And his Bambi was smart as hell, so she rolled her eyes in her most annoyed acquiescence.

“Okay, fine. I may have a—note. On your list,” Bambi said, turning around to begin folding Eliot’s discarded shirts the way he preferred. Her back was tense under her silk as she worked. “I didn’t mention at first, because far be from me to stick my nose in places where it doesn’t belong—”

Eliot let a smile slip out, since she couldn’t see him. “You mean you were high and forgot how words worked.”

Margo hummed in agreement and spun around, winking at him. “I love sticking my nose in places.”

Clearly.

“So all of a sudden, you don’t think it’s done?” Eliot leaned against his dresser, watching her quick and methodical movements. “You were the one pushing me to go talk to Q, right the fuck now, so this seems—_random_, Bambi.”

He was being charitable because he loved her.

“It’s not,” Margo said sharply. But then she paused, resting her palms on the bed and closing her eyes. “I see how it lookslike it is. But I think there’s someone else you need to—someone else you should talk to, first. The penultimate stage of your quest, the surprise twist, the fiercest and truest challenge to overcome.”

“You sound like Quentin,” Eliot said, and it was one of those rare times he didn’t mean it as a compliment. She flipped him off, but didn’t stop speaking.

“You need to talk to someone who,” Margo heaved a breath and swallowed, “someone who _ definitely _ knows the portal key and could give it to you.”

Eliot froze, fingers tense against the metal hinges of his dresser drawers.

Shit.

“Someone who can be the real bridge, in every way,” Margo said, meeting his eyes, softly. “Which is characteristic of an _ actual _ quest, by the fucking way.”

Eliot dipped his gaze away, the slow crawl of panic taking over again. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, his fists, his joints. Margo sat down on the foot of his bed and watched him, crossing her legs and cupping her knee with both hands. The fire in her eyes didn’t waver. She was Atë, the goddess of mischief and ruin, the goddess of folly.

He should have worshipped her, down on his knees. But instead Eliot crouched down, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes and feeling like a puppet with his strings cut. It was all way too much.

“Margo, I don’t think I can—” Eliot spoke into the ground, pulse thumping wildly. “Look, I thought about it, okay? But she hates me and I’m not in the market of impossible things.”

“You talked to fucking _ Kady _ for, like, two hours,” Margo shot out, fairly. “I thought the whole point of this was cleanslating.”

“I thought _ you _said that I didn’t have to resolve all my shit,” Eliot shot back, fairly.

“This isn’t about resolving all your shit,” Bambi said, not giving an inch. “This is about you being able to be in the same goddamn room as my—”

Eliot flinched and hugged himself, every muscle in his face spasming despite his best efforts at placid calm. “I know. I know, okay? It is, but this is—if I fuck it up—she hates me, Margo, and that’s not something I can change right now.”

“She doesn’t hate you. She’s mad at you,” Margo said softly, tilting a half grin at him. Then she paused, thinking and biting her lip. “I mean, she’s really mad at you.” Then she opened her mouth and closed it, nodding with a wince. “Okay, she might hate you.”

Fucking goddamn fuck. “Encouraging.”

“She’s protective,” Bambi said with a sigh. “Q told her more shit than he should have from what I’ve gathered.”

“Great,” Eliot said, fixating on a lost sequin on the ground. It glinted in the light, winking at him. Little flirt. Fuck. Shit. He swallowed glass. “Really great.”

“El, you fucked up in a cornucopia of ways. It’s not supposed to be easy,” Margo said slowly. “You _ knew _ it wasn’t going to be easy, especially when you strip away the fanciful framework you created for yourself.”

“None of this has been easy,” Eliot breathed out.

He was tired. He was so tired. Maybe he was—too tired? To go see Q? Maybe he should wait until he had regained his strength wait until he could handle it. Maybe he should pull a Rip Van Winkle.

“I know. I’m proud of you,” Margo said, standing and holding him. It was the death knell to his equivocating and cowardly inner monologue. “But you still gotta grow a pair of tits and finish this, the right way. Not just for Q or for me, but for yourself.”

Eliot knew that. But it didn’t mean it was something he wanted to do. “I know, but—”

“She’s not going anywhere, El,” Bambi said, an undercurrent of threat lacing her softspun words. “You’ll feel better if you kill a couple birds here.”

“And what if it makes it worse?” Eliot asked, sighing. “What if she rejects my efforts? What, I lay down? Give up?”

Margo twisted her mouth and stared down at the ground. “Of course not. But that won’t happen.”

“Margo.”

“Eliot, please,” Bambi glanced back up at him, eyes wide and imploring, in a moment of rare vulnerability. “Please just try?”

Yeah.

_ Yeah. _

—Margo was about as good at asking for what she needed as he was.

So Eliot sighed and kissed her forehead, whispering his agreement into her hair. And then he closed his eyes and quietly added one more person to his list.

* * *

**5\. <strike>Quentin  
</strike>** **Julia**

* * *

Margo told him that Julia was out on the Cottage patio, waiting for her, and she was right. As always. But hough he feigned ignorance, Eliot had actually known _ exactly _when Julia had arrived back on campus. He even where she was most of the time since then.

He mostly knew because he had created an intricate escape route plan, lest they end up anywhere near each other.

At the time, it seemed to be a mutually agreeable course of action. Julia and Margo stayed near the library or Eliot swerved out of the room when he saw them together at the Cottage. He and Margo didn’t talk about her, except in broad strokes. Julia wouldn’t even fucking glance at him. It had worked seamlessly. That is, until now.

The sliding door to the patio heaved a relatable sigh and then squeaked on the final inches open. The sound didn’t startle Julia though, who leaned against the brown facade with unfocused eyes and a Parliament between her lips. Her long brown hair was soft and curled, tumbling over her usual black and flowy uniform without fuss.

Sometimes when Eliot looked at her, he couldn’t wrap his brain around how the fuck she had managed to get the two most important people in his life—both Q _ and _ Margo—to fall ass-over-dick-and-tits in love with her. From his lofty vantage point, she was basic as all hell.

But then other times, like in that private moment, with her pretty face and effortless moody intensity—

He got it.

Moving quietly, as though approaching a nest of hornets, Eliot slipped into the space beside her and matched her stance, leaning against the wall. At first, she gave no indication that she even noticed him, let alone that she cared he was there. But just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, Julia smirked and chuckled, a low sound from her throat.

“Uh-oh,” she said with mock concern, twirling her cigarette in the air. Smoke wisped out and away, the tip flaring orange with magic. “You gonna tell Margo on me?”

Eliot shrugged, his white shirt making a rough shuffling sound against the building. “She’s back on it too, so you’re fine.”

“Two ladies and their shared lung cancer,” Julia said, puckering her lips and closing her eyes. “That’s romance.”

“If you say so.”

She kept staring straight ahead, balancing the cigarette between her tattooed fingers. “How’s your break been?”

Eliot puffed his chest out and his head ached with the urge to lie, to spin his usual _ Fabulous, darling _whimsy. Instead, he pulled out his own pack and popped a lit cigarette into his mouth, sucking the nicotine down to his toenails.

“Shitty,” he said, because it was the truth and on New Year’s Eve, you tell the truth.

Julia blew smoke and spat out a terse, “Good.”

She was never one for bullshit. Eliot had to give her that. So he returned the favor, cutting to the chase.

“I need you to make me a portal,” he said, rolling his head to look down at her. “Please.”

She was the shortest of all the short people he knew, the top of her head nearly a foot below his. It was almost funny.

But Julia laughed without humor and stared up at him, eyes narrowed. “Are you trying to flatter me for some reason?”

“What?”

“You don’t need me for a portal,” she said, turning away to keep smoking. “Make it yourself. You’re talented enough.”

Julia ended her sentence with a firm finality and she set her eyes in the distance. He had been dismissed.

But unfortunately for her, Eliot didn’t go down that easily.

“I need to go to Montclair and my energy doesn’t know it,” he said carefully and yeah, _ that _ got her attention. She stilled, the way a wolf did before lunging at its prey. “I could do the usual bypass but that takes time I don’t have. So I was hoping you could—”

Julia still had half a cigarette but she threw it down, stomping the remnants with her heel. “Why the _ fuck _do you need to go to Montclair?”

Eliot took a long drag and kept his face impassive. They were both adults here. They could talk about this calmly and rationally, like adults.

He cleared his throat and hid a shaking hand in his pocket. “How much do you actually know?”

“How much do you think I actually know?”

Her tone did not predict good things for the conversation.

With a tight and sick stomach, Eliot felt an irrational wave of anger at Quentin. For a moment, he was actually _ pissed _ at Q for not keeping shit a little closer to the vest, for throwing Eliot under the bus with his best friend. But he let it pass like a cloud, with trembling breaths in and out his nose. He was really mad at himself. Quentin didn’t do anything wrong. He knew that.

He knew that.

Eliot closed his eyes. “Julia—“

“I warned him about you so many times,” Julia said, speaking from behind her teeth. She pulled out another cigarette and snapped fire to light it, a howl of flame. “So many times. It was exhausting work, Eliot.”

Well, motherfucker, she wasn’t going to make this easy, huh? 

Margo had said that. She kew it. He knew it. And based on the slight glint of smug satisfaction at the corner of Julia’s mouth, she knew it too. But if Julia thought guilt was the emotional response she’d elicit, she was sorely mistaken. The spark of rage, of righteousness, of knowing the fuck more than she did started to simmer in his belly.

Eliot Waugh didn’t go down that easily.

But unlike Quentin, _ apparently _, he knew when to sink ships and when to keep his fucking mouth shut. So Eliot smoothed down his vest and turned his lips up into a placid smile. To most, if not all, he was wistful and thoughtful, rather than about to go for the jugular in his own right.

It remained—and would forever remain—the most useful tool in his vast arsenal.

“I’m sure it was,” Eliot said simply.

Julia didn’t acknowledge that he spoke. “But he’s fucking stubborn and now look where you two are. You’re basically fine, if _ shitty _—” she did obnoxious air quotes there and he kind of hated her, seriously “—and he’s worse off than ever.”

“Then help me fix it,” Eliot said, smoking over the feral hint of his real feelings that caught in his throat. Blood thrummed through his veins like wildfire, rendering him lightheaded. But he needed to keep his shit together.

“Fix what?”

“Everything,” Eliot said, squinting up at the inappropriate sunlight. Overcast wind and bleary rain would fit the mood more, but it wasn’t scheduled. “I know I fucked up—”

Julia tilted her head up in a dramatic laugh. “Understatement of the goddamn decade.”

“I know. Okay?” Eliot said, control wearing thin. This was a waste of time. “I know. But I am trying to—”

But she cut him off, shaking her head and her cigarette at him with her usual condescending air. Her delicate features narrowed to an angry pinch and her already dark eyes went black.

“The best thing you could do is leave him the hell alone. Let him move on and find someone else,” Julia said, so much smarter than everyone else in the room. “Anything other than that is you being a _ selfish fuck _.”

Her own control snapped on the last two words and she hissed at him, more pissy goose than regal wolf. So Eliot held himself tall, taking the advantage when he could. But he still didn’t bullshit her. Wouldn’t do that.

Instead, Eliot looked her right in the eyes. “So be it then.”

Selfish fuck he was born, selfish fuck he would die.

Julia stared right back, eyes hooding over. Her upper lip spasmed and she blew a plume of smoke in his face. Then she ashed her cigarette and stared down at the ground, watching the graywhite cinders fall in a twirl.

“I’m not going to help you hurt Q,” she said, without further inflection. “Make your own damn portal, if you’re really enough of a dickhead to do that to him.”

Eliot didn’t waver in his gaze. He went for broke, working his jaw and ripping open his chest, so she could see his exposed heart.

Fuck it.

“I’m in love with him.”

Eliot said it quietly, into the still magic air. And Julia froze, eyes blinking wide and disbelieving straight ahead. Slowly, she turned toward him, wonder and maybe—_ maybe _—a hint of hope twitching across her brow. But as quickly as the change came, it disappeared. Her face darkened all over again with a derisive tick of her brow.

“No fucking kidding. You think I don’t know that?” Julia snorted and turned back to her cigarette. “Love is bare minimum bullshit.”

Eliot snorted right back at her, loud enough that it caught her attention despite herself. She said it as though she wasn’t preaching to the choir. He shrugged and rested most of his weight against the wall, staring up at the mockingly cloudless sky.

He blew smoke into the blinding blue, for panache.

“Exactly,” Eliot said in answer to her silent question. Then he bit down on his filter, forcing words out. “Frankly, Julia, you're not actually the one I have to convince of any of this. But all I can say is that I wasn’t ready.”

“And now you are?”

It was a fair question.

“I have no fucking idea. But I want to try, at least,” Eliot said honestly. He didn’t use the word _ quest _ with her but he did say: “I’ve been trying to work through some of my shit before I talk to him.”

_ Some of _ was the actual understatement of the goddamn decade. But he would never be able to live his life if he tried to tackle everything. And in his heart, the darkest and most brutal corner of the organ—Eliot wasn't sure if he even knew what _ everything _ was.

That was the most terrifying truth of all.

Irrelevant at the moment though, so Eliot focused on Julia’s widening eyes.

“Wow,” she said, jutting out a hip. Miraculously, she smiled. “That’s actually impressive.”

Eliot let out a shaky breath, grasping onto the moment of connection. “Yes, well, ah—”

”Really, Eliot, kudos,” Julia continued, smile growing bigger and bigger. “What a feat!”

The connection disintegrated in his hands, falling through like broken glass made dust.

“Okay,” he said, keeping his voice low in a warning. But it didn't stop Julia. If anything, her faux enthusiasm increased, eyes brightening and her hands spread wide like a marquee.

“In only two weeks time, ladies and gentlemen, we have before you _ a brand new man _ ,” she announced, buoyant and sharp, resonant from the diaphragm. “Someone who changed his entire paradigm overnight, defying all laws of nature and sense. Yet where there was once _ a smug egomaniac, _ we now have—”

Eliot loomed over her, dark and done playing. “You made your point.”

“Then walk the fuck away from me,” Julia said, her face flattening out into an expressionless mask.

“No.”

It was that fucking simple. She wasn’t going anywhere? Well, neither was he.

“I’m stronger and smarter than you,” Julia said, sparking her fingers like a taser, like it proved the point, like he couldn’t do the same thing in a breath. “Walk the fuck away.”

But Eliot remembered who he was doing this for, above anyone, above all the shit. And wasn't even Q, not really. Not at the end of the day.

This part was for Bambi.

“You are—we’re going to be in each other’s lives, Julia,” Eliot said, as neutrally as he could in the face of potential execution. “Even if things between me and Q don’t—”

The sparks snapped, crackled, and popped. “There is no _ you and Q _.”

“That’s not up to you,” Eliot said, throwing his cigarette to the side, not caring where it landed. “But Quentin and I will stay friends, even if I lost my chance to be with him. He told me he wanted that. He wrote me a letter before he left and we’ve been talking, in case you didn't know.”

She obviously didn't know.

Julia let out a soundless laugh and looked away, sucking down smoke. “Jesus Christ.”

“Not to mention that there’s also a _ me and Margo _, whether you like it or not,” Eliot finished with an undeniable blow. Sure enough, The Great Julia Wicker flinched. “We are going to be in each other’s orbits.”

It seemed like Julia wasn’t going to respond again. But then she cleared her throat, kicking her leather boot into the ground.

“Okay, so is this where you fall to your knees and beg my forgiveness?” She pursed her lips and her jaw ticked impatiently. “Would you mind getting it over with so I can enjoy my cigarette in peace?”

Eliot chuckled. Really, doing that would be the faster choice. Maybe she wouldn’t build the fucking portal for him or give him the key, but at least he could tell Margo he tried and that would be that.

No bullshit though.

“I resent the hell out of you,” Eliot said, easy as anything. “Always have.”

He knew that most people would have flipped him off right then and there, without a single look back. Called him a dick and cursed his audacity, his shittiness, before writing him off even further. But Eliot also knew that Julia Wicker wasn’t actually _ most people _.

So when he glanced over at her, he wasn’t surprised to find her face slightly softer. More thoughtful. Calculating.

“That might be the first honest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she said, almost hiding a tiny smile. She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

Oh, come on. “You know why.”

“I do,” Julia said with a wide nod. Then she laughed, sharp. “But I want to hear you say it.”

“Because you’re number one.” Eliot’s throat scraped against itself as it almost closed over the words. “To both of them.”

It was petty. It was childish. It was the worst part of himself. It probably had something to do with how his mother used to rank him and his brothers, by godliness. 

But certain things were doomed to mystery.

“I can’t believe that I have to be the one to say this to you, of all people,” Julia said, not actually unkindly, “but relationships aren’t that fucking binary.”

Eliot knew that. “And yet.”

“And yet,” Julia repeated with a sigh. Then she cocked her head, academic smile peaking up her mouth. “Okay, so here’s one of Margo’s thought experiments for you. If one of us asked her to choose between us, who wouldn’t that go well for?”

He didn't even have to think about it as he chuckled into the ground. “Whoever asked.”

Woe be to them.

Julia took a single step closer in, resting back against the wall. They didn’t touch, but the gap closed.

“One of the reasons you piss me off so much is that you’re so smart, but you rarely use it in any way that’s actually productive or meaningful.”

Two steps forward, one step back. Eliot rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t realize you were a school teacher under all that poly-viscose,” he said, cracking his neck. He smiled around a sneer. “Gonna tell Mr. Waugh how he’s _not_ _living up to his potential _next?”

Julia rolled her eyes right back.

“I don’t give a shit about your work. You’ll get out of Brakebills what you get out of it,” she said, as indifferent as her words. But then her jaw clenched, tight and tense. “You broke his _ heart _, you know that, right?”

She shot him a wild glare and his own broken heart flew down into his stomach.

“I know,” Eliot breathed out.

“Do you know how fucking devastated he was?”

“Yes.” He bobbed his head back and forth before qualifying. “I do now.”

Julia laughed, mirthless and fierce. “Yet you can look me in the face?”

Eliot’s ferocity reared its ugly, powerful head and he snapped his neck down at her, nearly breaking it off.

“You’re not his proxy. You’re not his mother,” he growled. “Even if it’s seemed to escape your notice.”

Saying those words to Julia wasn’t exactly like loosening a knot. It was more like exploding it, frayed edges flying everywhere and smoldering. But it was freeing nonetheless and Eliot found his breath coming easier in her presence.

But she reacted about as he expected.

“Oh, _I’m_ _sorry_ if he needs someone who knows how to take care of him,” Julia snarked, hot breath like a dragon. “Someone who actually knows when he can’t do it himself.”

At this point, Eliot had to assume she knew exactly what the fuck she was doing when she said those things to him. 

Maybe that was uncharitable. Maybe it never occurred to her that it could be taken as an indictment, a challenge. Maybe there really wasn’t an icy layer of of _ Unlike you, Eliot _ underneath the words. But based on the defiant flare in her eyes, Eliot doubted it.

Which is why he felt no guilt when he smirked and said, “Lovely thought. Zero out of ten execution.”

“Fuck you,” Julia said, voice and eyes dulling over. But Eliot still had more shit to say and she was going to hear it, whether this was a stop on his stupid apology quest or not.

“You think you’re helping him, but all you do is add frustration on top of his burden,” he said, hands twitching behind his back in untethered frenetic fury. “You bulldoze over what he tells you he _ explicitly fucking needs _.”

At that, Julia just pouted her lips, nodding simperingly. “Aw, that’s so cute that you think Quentin knows what he needs.”

Holy fuck, she was _ serious _.

“Do you hear yourself?” Eliot demanded, rounding on her when she scoffed. “No bullshit, have you ever listened to the words coming out of your mouth?”

“I’ve known him for fifteen fucking years, Eliot,” Julia started to say, long-suffering and annoyed, but no. “I think I have some idea—“

No.

Fuck that. He was _ done _ pretending she had a monopoly due to longevity. That she couldn’t possibly have blind spots, that there weren’t things that he and Q shared that she wasn’t privy to. Things that changed the calculus, even if she dug her heels in.

Eliot knew Quentin.

“Quentin is a grown man,” he said, tension expanding and seeping out his body all at once as he spat his truths. “A smart man, a _ brave _man, who has more strength in his pinky than you’ve ever given him credit for.”

A strange quiet crossed between them when he finished speaking, the lack of birds on the Brakebills campus never more apparent. The lines of Julia’s throat spasmed as she swallowed. She looked away, face draining of color.

“You’re talking out your ass.”

Her voice drained of conviction too.

“I think you know I’m not,” Eliot said quietly. But then his cruelty acted up without warning, always pushing a step too assholish. “But hey, maybe you just get off on your power complex, the way you always get to be the stable one or the healthy one—“

“Shut the fuck up,” Julia said, clipped and firm and not fucking around. Shit.

He sucked in a sharp breath and closed his eyes, knowing it was too much. But when Eliot opened his mouth to apologize, she burst away and paced in a frantic circle.

“No, you know what? Actually? Fuck you. You do _ not _ get to judge me,” Julia threw out to cut him of, face turning red as she jutted her finger in his face. “You have no idea—you have _ no idea _ what it can be like with him.”

That was probably true. But at the same time, “He’s not sixteen anymore. He’s—“

“What? Better?” Julia stopped and crossed her arms, eyes like fire. “That’s not how it works.”

“No shit. But Q knows himself more now,” Eliot said, amazing himself with the surety of his message. “He knows when things are getting bad, most of the time. He has more tools at his disposal. He actually talks about it.”

With an obvious piercing retort on her tongue, Julia opened her mouth wide—and then closed it. She huffed a breath and her brow wavered, staring at Eliot in shock. Then, turning the shock around to him, she deflated, eyes casting low.

“Yeah, well, not to me,” Julia said, like it was the first time it occurred to her. She hugged herself tighter. “Not like he used to.”

Eliot bit his lip and bobbed his head back and forth. “Well, I don’t mean to be a dick, but—“

_ You talk to him like he’s an incontinent infant chimpanzee. _

(He trailed off instead of saying it. Growth, et cetera.)

“That’s a first,” Julia said, with only half feeling. She pinched the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes tight. “But yeah, I know. I _ know _, okay?”

She opened her eyes again and Eliot felt a rush of sympathy at the depthless fear reflected outward. He could feel it in his soul.

“You just have—“ Julia sniffed, sounding younger than he had ever heard her. “You have no idea how fucking terrifying it can be.”

Eliot knew the stories.

Well, he knew Quentin’s version of the stories. The long days in bed, the staring at the ceiling into nothing. The time he ran away from home, seven years to the day, on New Year’s Eve, to sleep at a bus station in the city during a flash flood. Eliot knew that Quentin hoped he would drown or get stabbed or die some other way because it seemed like “an interesting story” to his broken brain, at the time. He knew that Quentin had tormented himself with guilt, when he was feeling healthier, for even having those thoughts, for failing everyone around him all the time. Eliot knew about the numbness, the way it didn’t only destroy Q, but made him not give a shit to a critical degree. Eliot had listened to all of it and tried his best not to panic at the memories alone, at the possibility (the inevitability?) of their return.

But it never once occurred to him to look at those stories from Julia’s perspective.

Never thought about her horror or the responsibility she felt, as his only real friend, for so long. Partially, Eliot never thought about it because it was too close to home, stepping into that kind of empathy and thinking about actually experiencing that profound fear, rather than only hearing about it. But really, Eliot knew—he k_ new _—he also never wanted to give her the credit.

And that was the shittiest thing of all.

“No. But I can imagine,” Eliot said quietly. He really could. He could feel the cold hand of terror along his back, stacking his spine with spikes. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I’m—I’m sorry you had to carry that alone for so long.”

He really was.

Not that Eliot didn’t mean what he said. He knew Quentin was stronger than Julia believed. But he could also see how that belief, wrong as it was, came from a place of fear, a place of desperate caring, a place of soft blankets and petrified words of assurances, to all involved. Her calculus wasn’t about Q’s lack of capability. Her calculus was, _ It’s better to be safe than sorry. _

Eliot understood.

“Thanks for acknowledging that,” Julia said, voice thick with feeling. Eliot nodded.

With her free hand, she pushed her hair back and she stared up at the sky. “He’s had a good stretch of time since Brakebills, I’ll admit. And you’ve been—you’ve been a good friend to him during the good times, the last couple of months notwithstanding.”

Now it was Eliot’s turn to feel his twisted smile down his legs. He laughed, more validated than he would ever admit.

“Thank _ you _ for acknowledging that,” he said, shooting her a little furtive look.

She returned it, eyes glowing with magic and too much knowledge. Quietly, they exchanged smiles of shared priorities, of how much they both loved Q, intensely if imperfectly. But the moment melted away as Julia’s face fell, graying with the gloomy reality of trusting Eliot as far as she could throw him without magical assistance.

“But you’ve never seen a bad year,” she said, finishing her cigarette and sending it to the ether. She closed her eyes. “And there can be bad _ years _, Eliot.”

“I know,” Eliot said, unsure of what more he could say. “He’s told me.”

Julia blinked away from him, biting her lip. Her eyes looked suspiciously red, plaintive and faraway.

“In your heart of hearts, do you really think you can handle that?” She asked it like she really wanted to know. She asked it like she really hoped he could. “Do you think you can handle _ years _ of the worst of Q?”

She asked it like it was an impossibility.

Because they both knew how bad it could be. Even Eliot had seen enough to know enough. 

He knew what Quentin was like, in the throes of it.

Quiet. Morose. Angry, fucking mean, often unable to move. Distracted and derisive, frustrating and frustrated. Barely able to brush his teeth but absolutely _ furious _ if anyone reminded him that it was a prerequisite to functionality. Slow moving and distant. Sleepless, probably sexless. Hyperfixated, overly logical, yet existing nowhere but in the worst of his emotions. Panicky and needy, but hating you for it every step of the way.

It was not a joke. It was not for the faint of heart. It was fucking _ hard _.

So it absolutely made sense why Julia would never anticipate his answer being—

“_ Yes _ ,” Eliot said, surprising himself with the force of his response, both in word and feeling. “If it’s Quentin? Yes _ . _ Every single day, for as long as he’ll have me.”

—It was also not even a fucking question.

Julia smiled sadly, still not meeting his eyes. “I wish I believed you.”

“If I’m given the opportunity, the privilege,” Eliot said in a promise to someone other than her, “time will prove me true.”

He didn’t know much in this world. Didn’t even pretend to know much, not when it came down to it. But he knew there would be no greater honor, no greater source of joy, than being Quentin’s person, no matter the circumstance. And he would spend every single day making up for how long it took him to get there.

But Julia didn’t know that. Not yet. 

“That’s the thing, right? I’m not going to believe you can sustain anything until I see it,” she said, popping her lip in her mouth. She shrugged, at once helpless and unyielding. “Your words are meaningless to me.”

“Then I’ll stop saying shit.” Eliot rubbed his neck and swallowed, looking at his hands. “I’ll do it and I hope you’ll see somewhere down the line, one way or the other.”

The undercurrent of his words—that he wasn’t _ actually _ asking for her blessing or her permission—didn’t seem lost on her. But she didn’t seem angry anymore. If anything, Julia just looked resigned to it all.

Not the ideal. But it was better. And Eliot was starting to appreciate the subtle merits of _ better. _Perfect was the enemy after all.

“I hope so too,” Julia said quietly, like she meant it. “I really hope so.”

Eliot met her eyes again and sighed, remembering everything Margo had said on the Bad Night. He looked at Julia, really looked at her. She had Quentin-based worry lines on her face and one of Bambi’s bright pink notebooks sticking out of her bag. Her tiny frame almost glowed in the magic light.

He really never gave her a chance.

“Julia,” Eliot said, swallowing his pride over a lump in his throat. “On another note, I want you to know that I’m—I’m sorry that I’ve been such—”

She snorted, shooting him a sly half smile. “An ass?”

Definitely not a bullshitter, that one.

Eliot held his hands out, not sure how to expand. “Yeah.”

Well, there were a couple of ways he could expand.

Eliot could talk about all the ways he had dismissed her. His jealousy not only regarding Q but also Margo. About how his jealousy regarding Margo was so much more intense. How he wasn’t sure how to _ not _ feel like his few real relationships were always teetering on the edge. Like they could be ripped from him at any second and how he had unfairly painted her as the pillager. How trust rarely came easily to him and that when it did, he threw his whole heart and fear into it, making those deemed worthy the center of his world. How he was trying to change that—how he wanted to be open, by choice rather than inexplicability. How he really wanted to open his heart to her, for Q’s sake and mostly Margo’s sake. How he hoped she could do the same for him, with time.

But Eliot had a feeling he had already pushed Julia’s patience enough for one day. They had time.

He hoped.

“I appreciate the apology,” Julia said, raising her eyebrows once. “And I’ll accept it when I see you be less of an ass.”

Eliot let out a breath. “That’s fair.”

“I’m a fair person,” she said, stretching her arms over her head. She cocked an eye at him, squinting “So what are you going to do differently?”

Eliot frowned. He hadn’t really thought about it that much yet. “I guess I can try engaging you in actual conversations more often. Ask you about, like, your family? I guess? And—”

But that made Julia laugh and she shook her head. “No. I don’t give a shit about that right now. I meant with Q.” Ah. “You make a grand declaration and then what?”

A rush of warm affection spread from his heart.

_ Quentin _.

“Whatever he wants,” Eliot said easily, smiling softly and sadly. Because it didn’t matter whether Q wanted to be with him or not. It didn’t change his answer. “Whatever he’ll let me give him, it’s his.”

“That’s vague,” Julia said as she pinched her lips together and crossed her arms. And Eliot nodded, conceding the point.

“I’m trying not to have expectations,” he explained, eyes falling closed. “I’m trying to let go of my need to control shit all the time.”

Her voice was gentler now, rumpled like her brow probably was. “You love him?”

“I love him,” Eliot said, words ringing out clear as a bell. He opened his eyes so she could see the truth of it. Because, _ god _, he loved Quentin so much.

“You’re going to act like you love him?” Julia remained in interrogation mode. “All the time?”

“All the time.” _ All the fucking time _. “You have my word, bullshit as you may think it is.”

The tiniest hint of a smile started to form on her face, but she hardened it to stare coolly at him. “Could I stop you, even if I wanted to?”

Eliot didn’t bullshit her. “You could—delay me.”

If anything sparked a genuine look of hope, of the barest hint of approval, it was that. Tenacity appreciated tenacity.

With another long look at him, Julia nodded and opened her bag. She pulled out a spare sheet of spell paper and held her hand over the center. And just like that, a portal key burned throughout the space, black and gold.

“Don’t fuck it up,” Julia said, holding the paper out with a firm thrust. Like in a trance, Eliot reached out toward it, heart pounding. It was the last puzzle piece. Once he took it, there was really no going back. He had never been more terrified, overwhelmed, or grateful in his entire life.

But first, Eliot had to say, looking Julia deep in the eyes, “Thank you for being so good to Margo.”

Julia blinked hard and took a step back, caught off guard for once. She frowned, confused more than anything.

“Don’t thank me for that,” she said, that vulnerable thread looping around each word. “I don’t need to be _ thanked _for that.”

For the first time, Eliot wanted to hug Julia.

He didn’t. 

But he really wanted to and that sure as fuck was something.

“I’m just—I’m glad she has someone like you in her life,” Eliot said, sniffing once. He looked away, the world going a little bendy. “I’m grateful for it. Truly.”

Julia stepped closer to him and rested a hand on his arm, sliding the portal paper between his fingers. He looked at her again and she smiled.

“She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Julia said, wistful and tender. “It was easy once I let it be.”

Eliot nodded, everything too bright and too clear under her steady gaze. He swallowed, probably audibly, and laid his hand over hers. It was a soft touch, but a warm one. It was a start.

“Thank you.”

He meant it for more than the portal, but he didn’t say that. She seemed to know anyway, based on the blurry smile she gave him. But then she blinked and dug her fingernails in, just a tad.

“To be very fucking clear,” Julia said, twitching her upper lip up once, “we are beyond a shovel talk.”

“No, I get it.”

“If you ever hurt him again—”

Eliot met her eyes and promised the world from his heart. “I won’t.”

“I’m talking even minor shit,” she said, arching a brow. “Like, you two aren’t ever going to fight because your only response to any issue Q has is going to be, _ You’re right, sweetie, I’m complete garbage and you’re the most wonderful man who ever lived _, got it?”

That sounded amazing.

Eliot laughed and looked away, overwhelmed again. “Your lips to God’s ears.”

Julia curled her lips up into a true smile and she tilted her head, as much an appraisal as approval.

“Don’t fuck it up,” she said again, eyes sparkling.

Then Julia let Eliot take the paper.

* * *

tbc.


	11. Dearest You Will Always Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3/3 of my once single chapter now posted. Epilogue should be up <strike>later this week</strike> next week. (ETA: Shhhh, it was always like that.)
> 
> All my love!

  
  


** _Montclair, New Jersey, December 31, 2016_ **

** _*_ **

**New Year’s Eve, Continued**

*****

**(The End of Our Story; The Beginning of Another)**

* * *

The flash of the portal was white and blinded Eliot against the quickly falling snow.

He stumbled forward onto his feet, brogues sliding on black ice without traction. With a jolt of panic, he scrambled to grab onto the nearby cobwebbed brick on either side of his hands. With a panting gasp, Eliot rearranged himself and the bouquet of flowers in his hands, the petals bright yellow in the dusty, dreary cold. He flitted his eyes about and then rolled them, realizing where he was.

Eliot and Julia may have been on somewhat better terms after their little chat, but she still sent him to a portal above an old sewer main, on the edge of a goddamn muddy and frozen dog park.

What a delight.

He could see his breath in the thin air and the sky above was cloudy, reflecting dull light from the nearby city. Expertly avoiding ice covered dog shit to step further onto the suburban sidewalk, Eliot squinted his eyes in the tiny but fast flurries, just making out _ Mt. Vernon Rd _ on the reflective green sign.

Tightening his grip on the flowers, his heart sped up in fear—_ gonna fuck up, gonna fuck up, you’re gonna fuck up _—but he forced himself five doors down regardless. Still, when Eliot came face-to-face with a shiny number 45 and a weathered red door, he couldn’t feel any of this extremities in both the cold and his terror. But he swallowed his cowardice to its usual hiding spot and raised his fist, gently and politely knocking.

The windows were lit up with warm yellow lights and he could make out an intact but unlit Christmas tree in the living room. He bounced on his toes, sucking in shallow breaths and wishing he could smoke a quick cigarette before doing this. Because Eliot was _ fucking doing this _.

In any case, Eliot thought he would get over it, once Quentin opened the door. That his paltry bravery would come, rushing in to save the day.

But instead his desire for a cigarette increased fucking _tenfold_ when the small lace curtain on the door window pulled back. His heart came to a complete stop and his mouth went dry. Because the figure atop the edge of the small window offered him a softly rumpled and confused expression, eyes tilting and searching with a painful familiarity. 

And Eliot’s own eyes just—_ widened _.

Oh, god.

Oh, shit.

Oh, no.

It definitely said something fucked up about his own fucked up family dynamics that he hadn’t prepared at all for this inevitable conclusion.

The door clicked open in slow motion. But before Eliot could make a run for it, the man squinted at him, bracing himself against the cold in a gray knit sweater. 

“Yes?” He frowned, uncertain. “May I help you?”

“Hi,” Eliot breathed out, holding himself up higher to hide his rattling nerves. He licked his lips and ticked them up into what he hoped passed for a placid smile, but he was pretty sure he looked like Crazy Eyes McGee, horrified and manic.

—Because Eliot had _ definitely _ forgotten that Quentin had a dad.

In any horrifying case, the man—Ted Coldwater, he assumed—blinked and looked around, like he was expecting Ed McMahon to jump out from the hedges. You know, in that fresh and topical kind of way.

“Uh. Sorry. Hi,” Eliot said again when _ Quentin’s motherfucking dad _ didn’t really respond. “How—how are you?”

Smooth as silk.

“Hello,” Ted finally said, but frowning all the deeper. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“Happy New Year,” Eliot said, tongue skittering and batting a thousand. “Mr. Coldwater, I presume?”

Eliot was a goddamn idiot. Ted sighed.

“Look,” he said, shaking his head. He held his hand out and started to move to close the door. “If you’re selling something, I’m not—”

Eliot closed his eyes and cleared his arid throat, coughing as he did. “No. Ah, actually, I was wondering—is, ah, is Quentin in?”

When he reopened them, Ted had pressed his lips into a line and his eyes glinted with a touch of humor. He folded his arms and chuckled. “He is. May I ask who is asking?”

Shit. “Yes, sorry,” Eliot said with a dry chuckle of his own, shifting on his feet. Shit. “I’m a friend of his. From school. Eliot Waugh.”

To his utmost surprise, Ted’s confused face brightened.

“Eliot. Of course,” he said with an actual grin. He snapped his fingers. “From Brakebills.”

Uh.

What?

Eliot slowly blinked and looked behind him, like he was on the equally topical Candid Camera. He laughed, disbelieving. “Sorry. You know about—?”

(He wasn’t sure if his question ended in _ magic _ or _ me _, as both were bewildering.

“Sure, sure, Q told me ages ago,” Ted said, waving off knowledge of the magical element like it was a mildly entertaining human interest piece on the nightly news. “Showed me that he can fix my airplanes. Handy-dandy, I’ll tell you.”

“Quentin will make a good husband someday,” Eliot said, because it was insane o’clock somewhere. And at Ted’s baffled look, he decided the best course of action was to keep talking. He was most excellent at interacting with parents and other authority figures, without any paralyzing horror. 

Here’s where he would prove it.

“I mean because he can fix things around the house,” Eliot explained, the ground sinking low around his feet. “Like, ah, husbands traditionally do. But of course, it doesn’t have to be like that. Obviously. Wives also fix things. Single people too. Really, anyone can fix things, if they want. Or they could hire someone. Lots of options.”

And so with a grand smile at the end of his grand speech, Eliot sucked in a deep breath through his nose and held his free arm out in a flourish. 

That was fucking that.

“No, I understood,” Ted said with a humoring smile. “It’s a nice thought.”

“Yes, well, thank you,” Eliot said, popping his cheeks in and out his teeth. He smiled again, trying for bright. “Um, anyway, Quentin really is very, very—“

He had no idea what he was going to say, but Ted was as kind as his son and cut him the hell off.

“Why don’t you come on in?” Ted said, beckoning with his hand. “Cold out there.”

Eliot hoped his breath of relief could be chalked up to the weather. “Thank you.”

Stepping inside, Eliot wiped his feet and tried not to smile at the rustic, cluttered warmth of Q’s childhood home. 

Unsurprisingly, there was no real style. Books were scattered about everywhere and the long lines of the house were covered in a hodgepodge of mementos and knick-knacks, tchotkes more than specificity. Small model airplanes were lovingly encased in glass and a few cat toys were scattered about. (Quentin had once mentioned an elderly “devil cat” named Wrinkles who could “fuck off.”) And the walls were painted pale yellow, with potted plants hanging low along the corridors. All of the furniture was covered in homemade colorful quilts and pictures of Quentin were displayed everywhere, most prominently of all. 

It was cozy. It felt like a home.

While he was busy marveling though, Ted wasted no time. Wiping his hands on his jeans, he angled his mouth up toward the stairs and yelled, without preamble, “Curly Q, your friend is here!”

Eliot had a heart attack when a familiar voice shouted down with a graceless, “My _ what _?”

He gripped the nearby stair railing for balance and focused past the dark spots dancing in front of his eyes, the tingle flushing along his cheeks. His heart raced and he took steadying breaths over the uproar in his soul.

It was—it was Quentin.

It was _ Quentin _.

Quentin, who Eliot hadn’t seen or heard or touched in two weeks. Quentin, who was about to be the recipient of his still-beating heart and every vulnerability that Eliot had crushed down to nothing for the entirety of his worthless life. Quentin, the love of that life. Quentin. Quentin. Quentin.

QuentinQuentin_ Quentin _— 

“Your friend!” Ted shouted back, cupping his mouth and enunciating every syllable. “Come down and say hello!”

There was an annoyed thunk from overhead. “Come down and _ what _?”

“Say hello to your friend!”

“What the—” There was another slam and an audible frustrated grunt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Heart rate evening out and vision clearing with a bright light from within, Eliot dipped his lip between his teeth in a smile.

What a fucking brat.

“Just come down, son,” Ted boomed upward with a final exasperated shake of his head. In the distance, Quentin mumble-yelled something about _ Just a minute _, and his dad shot Eliot an apologetic look, weary and fond.

“I swear, he reverts to his adolescence the second he steps through the door,” Ted said, scratching his eyebrow. He sighed and gestured toward a bowl of leftover cereal at the dining room table, one room over. “Forgets how to clear his plates too.”

“Oh, no, that’s just who he is,” Eliot said with a grin and without thinking. “Sorry to break it to you.”

Luckily, Ted took it in good humor, as it was meant, and smiled back. It was then Eliot could really see that Quentin looked a lot like him, all gentle frowning edges and a disarming quiet kindness. He liked Ted already, even before he had any sort of right to think—well, really anything about Ted.

“You do what you can and then you let go,” Quentin’s dad said with a groaning sigh, before cocking his head toward the living room couch. “Well, take a seat if you’d like. Knowing Q, a minute really means twenty, because he’ll get caught up in some book along the way. Hope you brought your patience.”

“Always do,” Eliot agreed with a small smile.

“Unless you want to head up and say hi on your own?” Ted offered and Eliot’s throat went dry. Probably not a good idea. Much as he wanted to dash up as fast as he could and throw Quentin down on his childhood bed, christening it.

(Chastity was still not his strong suit.) 

“No, I can wait,” Eliot said wisely, ticking his eyes around. He adjusted the collar of his coat. “He sounded focused.”

“Always is,” Ted said, rueful and fatherly. “Not sure if anyone can compete with Rupert Chatwin.”

At that, Eliot felt a rush of bittersweet longing. 

But not for Quentin, for once. 

He felt a rush for what might have been—who _ he _ could have been—had his own family not been so fucked. Eliot knew Ted wasn’t a perfect father. Quentin had told him all the many ways in which Ted wasn’t a perfect father. But he clearly loved Q, enough to plaster his home with his (admittedly adorable) face and put up with his worst habits and even try his best to maintain an awkward conversation with his son’s strange, magical, _ very _gay friend, even though the television was both on and right there.

Even on their best day, Eliot’s family had never even given a fraction of that kind of shit about him. But now, the reminder didn’t make him feel bitter. Eliot was only grateful that Quentin got to have that. If anyone deserved it, Q deserved it.

Proving the point, Ted cleared his throat and clapped his hands once with a congenial smile. “So what kind of magical powers do you have, Eliot?” But then he frowned, eyes clouding with a hint of nerves. “Or is that, um, rude to ask?”

Fuck. Apples and trees. Eliot felt his heart lift in his chest.

“No, you’re fine,” he said warmly. “Ah, telekinesis is my main—power.”

“Moving things with your mind?” Ted smiled wider at Eliot’s nod. “Well, that must be handy-dandy too.”

“It can be,” Eliot said, weirdly charmed. He tapped his fingers along his knee, glancing up the stairs. Still nothing. “Makes moving boxes easier, that’s for sure.”

Eliot couldn’t remember the last time he moved a box, magically or otherwise. But it sounded like something a dad would appreciate, so he said it. He was a conversational mastermind that way.

Like clockwork, Ted gasped and held his hand to his heart. ”The dream.”

Eliot offered a polite laugh back and awkward silence fell over them. He tapped his foot and rolled the bouquet in his hands—fuck, he had a bouquet in his hands—the firm stems sliding along his fingers. The movement caught Ted’s attention and he cleared his throat, pointing at the flowers.

“Those are nice,” Ted said, polite and perfunctory.

Eliot lost his damn mind.

“Sorry, these are actually for you,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. He clicked his teeth shut into a smile. Shit.

_ Shit. _

“For me?” Ted’s eyebrows shot up. Eliot swallowed and nodded, both tight motions. He was committed now.

“Just, ah, you know, a Happy New Year token—“ _ What the fuck was wrong with him? _“—and a thank you for welcoming me into your home so graciously.”

He should have been committed now.

“Well, I’m glad you see all the trouble I went through,” Quentin’s dad said with a quick quirk of a smile, all Coldwater wryness. 

Eliot glanced around the room, newspapers spread out and several mugs left over, dry and sticky teabags clinging to their edges. His breath caught for a moment at the sight of an open _ Fillory and Further _book, facedown on the end table next to a coffee stain. But also, there was cat hair everywhere.

Touche, Ted.

Still, Quentin’s dad graciously took the flowers, holding back a fond smile or a mocking laugh as he did. Eliot finally sat on the couch while Ted excused himself to plop the flowers in a clear vase across the living room. When he returned, he placed them on the coffee table. Really, they looked nice in the dim light. They were yellow and bold and sweet. Perfect for Q.

And, uh, Ted. He guessed.

Feeling a touch unmoored in the strange situation of his own making, Eliot took a long, slow breath. Just as he was about to exhale, to say something more, to fill the awkward and quiet space—

His whole body malfunctioned into a panicked mess, at the sound of boots clunking down the stairs.

Eliot swallowed. His palms broke out into a tingling sweat and his skin was on fire. The world moved in slow motion and then hyperspeed as Ted stood up with a droll smile and a voice from behind him spoke in low, annoyed tones.

“Shit. Uh, Dad, have you seen my—”

“Quentin,” Ted said, cutting him off. “Your friend from school is here. Did you forget?”

Eliot slowly stood up and turned around, heart falling out of his chest as he saw Quentin scrounge around a desk, eyes narrowed as he opened every drawer and didn’t close them when he was done. 

God, he was a disaster. 

His disaster.

“What do you mean my friend from—?” He stared up at his dad as he squatted down next to the desk, soft brown eyes painted in frustration under his low brows. But then he blinked and those eyes widened, tracing over to Eliot in the same slow motion. His eyebrows went up and the tension in his jaw went slack.

Quentin breathed out, “Eliot?”

Nerve endings going fucking insane, Eliot swallowed and raised his hand up in a dumb little wave, like he hadn’t just shown up at Quentin’s childhood house uninvited and unexpected. Shit. He really hadn’t thought this part of the whole thing through. 

“Hey,” Eliot finally said, voice cracking. He swallowed again, dry and hot air sucking down into his lungs. It was, like, really hot in the house. Ted should turn the heat down. Not good for the environment. Also, it totally dried out your skin.

That wasn’t relevant though.

So he smiled, an awkward twitch of his lips as Quentin remained half-kneeling, staring at him in a blinking frenzy. Then Q stood up quickly, scrabbling his legs around the floor and pushing his hair behind his ears, still staring with a potent mix of wonder and wariness.

“Hi?” Quentin finally said, tilting his head and moving his eyebrows all around. He darted glances back and forth between Eliot and Ted, like he was trying to solve a complex equation. “What—how—how are you here?”

“Julia built me a portal,” Eliot said, not moving his eyes from him.

God, he hadn’t seen Q in—fuck. It had been too long. So he drank him in, not able to look long enough, not able to _ see _ enough. The way his hair fell to his shoulders, longer than he even remember in his mind’s eye. The one untied boot. Gray and blue flannel under a brown corduroy and shearling coat. Gentle eyes, soft lips, expressive brow, sharp jawline.

Quentin was so beautiful.

Eliot glanced away then, not able to take it anymore. But then he darted his eyes back, not able to take looking away anymore either.

Quentin’s face broke open with shock and a glint of something deeper—something Eliot wouldn’t dare to try to translate, not yet—and he took a step forward, almost stumbling.

“Julia?” Q asked, breathless and stunned, like it was a dream. “_ Julia _ built you a portal? Here?”

Eliot couldn’t help his sharp intake of breath and the way his lips lifted at the words, at the implication behind the words. He wanted to fall to his knees and promise, _ Yes, baby, she did. She did and it means exactly what you think it does _. But he held himself back, remembering. Remembering to take his time. To be patient.

“Yeah,” Eliot said with a small shrug, helpless. “She, ah—she built me a portal.”

Quentin smiled, just a little. “Julia built you a portal.”

Eliot smiled, a little wider. “She built me a portal.”

“She built you a _ portal _.”

“Yeah. She did. She built a portal for me.”

The air between them crackled like the nearby fire, zinging and popping through rarefied space. The impossibly soft eyes on him softened impossibly more and Eliot wasn’t sure if he was on solid ground anymore.

“I think we’ve concluded, gentlemen,” a chuckling voice said, stepping between them and clapping a hand on Q’s shoulder, “that Julia built a portal for Eliot.”

Shit, right.

Ted.

Like he had a similar train of thought, Quentin slammed his eyes closed and shook his head, furrowing his brow up at his dad and then back at Eliot. He crossed his arms, suddenly suspicious.

“Wait, have you two just been, uh, talking then? This whole time?” Quentin narrowed his eyes. “Like, to each other?”

“Yes, it’s been very nice,” Ted said with a grin. Quentin did not return it. “You know, Eliot here told me that you never clean up after yourself at Brakebills either.”

Quentin spun his head to glare at Eliot who could only offer back a sheepish wince. “That’s an exaggeration.”

It was not. But Eliot wasn’t going to be the one to say that.

“And he brought me this lovely bouquet of flowers,” Ted said, pointing over at the vase on the coffee table. Shitmotherfucker_ goddamn _. Eliot worked his jaw with a hopefully nice looking smile as Quentin’s eyes dragged over, widening with hidden glee.

“Really?” Quentin asked, tongue running over his teeth. “He did?”

Ted nodded, buoyant and bright. “Yes, isn’t that thoughtful?”

Quentin pressed his hand to his heart as his mouth slid into a smile, the shit he was snacking on smeared all around. “Yeah, wow. Um, man, that’s so thoughtful.”

Eliot hated him as much as he loved him.

“Well, you know, as they say,” Eliot said, licking his lips and darting a brave look right at Q. “Never show up to someone’s home empty handed.”

“One of your unshakeable policies, right?” Quentin softened his voice, though the intensity of his gaze didn’t waver. 

Everything was unsteady again and Eliot felt an unknowable warmth spread through his whole body, uncertain if it was dread or hope or both.

“Right,” he said quietly.

Quentin held his eyes for a moment longer before crumpling away, scrubbing a hand down his face. At the same time, Ted chuckled again at nothing and picked up the stray Fillory book, shaking the pages at Q.

“This the lost lamb?”

“Shit, yeah,” Quentin said, grabbing it from his dad’s hands and rolling his eyes at the softly muttered _ Language _from Ted. “Thanks, I’d be upset if I left without it.”

Eliot blinked as Quentin tucked the book into his messenger bag. “Wait, are you going somewhere?”

Fuck.

He honestly hadn’t considered that Quentin would have any other plans on New Year’s Eve other than sitting around. But the drop in his stomach and the nervous patter of his heart only increased as Q blushed, all the way to his ears, eyes not meeting Eliot’s.

“Uh, yeah, I was—I’m heading back to Brakebills,” Q said and _ oh _, the world was lit so brightly again. “Didn’t want to miss the big party.”

“I assumed that’s why you were here,” Ted said to Eliot with a frown. “To help Q with the whatchamacallit. The portal?”

“No, I was—“ Eliot breathed out, not sure how to finish his sentence. Quentin looked up at him, warily, eyes asking a thousand questions that he wasn’t equipped to answer.

Eliot swallowed and nodded, beseeching him with everything he had. “I’m here because I need to talk to Q about something.”

Those eyes fell into something softer and sadder and maybe, maybe, _ maybe _more hopeful all at once. Eliot tucked his hands into his coat, to keep them from reaching out.

Ted shrugged and cleared his throat, perhaps a touch pointedly. “Well, don’t let me keep you. I like watching the New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and it starts soon.” He chuckled fondly. “That Ryan Seacrest is a hoot.”

Quentin broke his gaze from Eliot to give Ted an irritated sigh. “Dad, that’s garbage.”

But Ted held his hands out and closed his eyes, well practiced, “We have a difference of opinion, son.”

“The portal Julia built is still open,” Eliot said, lurching forward on his toes to cut off the start of whatever argument Quentin was about to launch into. “We could catch it now. If you, ah—if you want to head back together.”

A pregnant pause filled the room and Quentin shifted on his feet. He brushed his hair back from his face and adjusted his bag, face showing no indication that he heard Eliot except a small pop of his jaw. But then he nodded, almost imperceptible, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yup,” Q said, somewhere between soft and clipped. Eliot couldn’t read it and dread started to pool in earnest. “That works. We can do that.”

“Okay,” Eliot said, trying not to turn it into a question. Quentin didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t owe him answers. He didn’t even owe him consistency. 

Turnabout's fair play, right?

In response, Quentin bobbed his throat and nodded again, digging the toe of his boot into the rug. “Uh, can you give me a second to say bye to my dad?”

“Of course,” Eliot said automatically, stepping forward and patting his coat. “I could use a smoke anyway.”

“Ah, you know I gotta say it,” Ted interjected, arms crossing across his chest. He gave Eliot a warm glare. “Stuff’ll kill you. I quit twenty years ago, never looked back.”

Eliot smiled, genuinely. “Maybe someday I’ll have the fortitude.”

“I’ve always been proud my Curly Q here never picked up the habit,” Ted said with a gentle grin and Eliot purposefully didn’t meet Quentin’s panicked and begging eyes.

(As though Eliot would ever narc on him.)

Ted rubbed Quentin’s tense back with a grin. “Maybe he can rub off on you.”

“Well, everyone should hope for that,” Eliot said with a soft smile, before changing the subject, before letting himself check for the look in Quentin’s eyes. He stepped forward and extended his hand. “Anyway, it was lovely to meet you, Mr. Coldwater.”

“Nonsense. I’m Ted,” Ted said with a gruff laugh, gripping his hand with a firm and friendly shake. “And you know, I’m just happy I finally got to meet _ the _ Eliot.”

Time froze. Quentin froze. “Dad.”

“Seems like every time he’s here,” Ted continued with a wave of his hand, entirely unaware of the parade of sparkling confetti he was setting off in Eliot’s chest, “it’s nothing but _ Eliot said this _ or _ Eliot said that _.”

Mouth and heart wavering all over the place, Eliot took a deep breath. The only thing that kept him from breaking out into a hysterical and dazzling smile was the uncomfortable pall that had fallen over Q’s face, eyes darting and hand rubbing furiously at his neck.

The embarrassed son in question shook his shoulders and stared back at the door, perhaps contemplating making a run for it. “That’s, um—that’s an exaggeration.”

“_ Did I tell you about my friend Eliot?” _Ted chuckled, before leaning down and peering at the bright red Quentin with big, wide, sarcastic eyes. “Yes, son, you did.”

“I make for good stories,” Eliot said, stretching a self-deprecating smile wide and stepping over to arrange the flowers one last time, breezy and light. “You should ask him about the champagne fountain incident. It’s a classic.”

Turning back around, Eliot also slid the piece of paper hidden between the petals into his fingers and up his sleeve. Because that definitely wasn’t for Ted.

Quentin shot him a furtive look of concealed gratitude, pink cheeks cooling. Eliot shrugged lightly, like_ It’s fine _, and took a deep breath.

“Q, I’ll meet you outside,” he said, offering them both a quick bow. “Nice to meet you again, sir.”

As Eliot passed by, he grazed his fingers along Quentin’s anxious knuckles, jumping and twitching at the edge of his coat. It was a brief touch, not even a full second, but warm sparks ran up and down his arm, raising gooseflesh. In turn, Q let out a quick breath and his lips turned up into a faint smile, though his eyes never stopped staring ahead.

The weather outside was frightful when Eliot stepped out onto the porch. But as he pulled flame from his fingers and stood down the path from the Coldwater family home, he couldn’t help but feel warm.

* * *

Eliot only finished half his cigarette when the door slammed. A figure barged past him, hunched over and moving in a straight line.

Quentin’s boots crunched in the snow, nearly down the path in his coat and a black beanie, already powdered in a fine layer of intensifying snow. His messenger bag made soft thumps against his hip, shuffling with his steps and scratching the denim of his jeans.

It was like he had forgotten Eliot was even there.

But when Quentin reached the start of the sidewalk, he stopped and huffed a visible breath, before looking over his shoulder with annoyed set to his mouth.

He barked, “Coming?”

Eliot nodded and threw his cigarette off to the ether, straightening up over his pounding heart. Without another word, Quentin kept moving ahead, turning the opposite way of the portal Julia built.

“Hey, wait,” Eliot said, frowning at Quentin’s back. “I think you’re heading the wrong direction.”

“Well, _ I _ think I’d know,” a sarcastic response came.

Shit. Eliot tried not to be too disappointed at the terse as fuck tone. Texting was one thing. Seeing each other in person for the first time since a world shattering fight was another.

This is exactly what he should have expected.

But Eliot wasn’t going down that easily. He picked up his pace and hit the same stride as Quentin—easy with his longer legs—and offered a small, friendly smile down at him.

“Well, _I _came from the other direction,” he said airily, blinking away a snowflake or two that landed on his lashes. “If we want to take the same as—“

“No, it’s definitely there, remember?” Quentin said more than asked, monotone. He pointed toward a small dark house. “Portal’s always open with the key. House hasn’t been sold in years.”

“Ah,” Eliot said, nodding. So he had been correct. “Yes, ah, well, Julia sent me to one over in the park—“

“On top of the sewer access?” Quentin snorted and then smirked, sharp and slight in the snow. “Yeah, okay, so you _ are _ still in the shit with her.”

Apparently.

“But, uh, you know,” Quentin said, spinning around once. He raised his eyebrows and flashed his eyes, walking backwards. “No pun intended.”

Eliot flinched. Tried not to show it. “I deserve that.”

“Yeah, turns out, now that I see you? I’m still fucking pissed at you,” Quentin said, gritting his teeth and gripping his bag. “So let’s go before I regret this.”

Stomach sinking into the snow underfoot, Eliot sniffed his frozen nose and swallowed. “Of course. Allez.”

It made sense.

It made _ sense _.

A few joking, flirting, friendly, what-the-fuck-ever texts didn’t mean anything. It didn’t mean that Quentin would run into his arms, intuiting everything that Eliot wanted to say—or that he even _ cared _ about anything Eliot wanted to say. He knew that going into this and he knew it now, much as it stabbed his spleen with every silent footstep forward.

After a few tense minutes, they reached the portal by unwarding the creaky house, the interior smelling of dust mites and cold air. The construction was frozen in stasis and runes were drawn on the walls. It was obviously hedge work, crude and just to the left of correct. But good for them for successfully tracking the energy, Eliot supposed.

Meanwhile, Quentin tutted, his quick hands moving with focused precision if not natural grace. He always bemoaned his lack of effortlessness, hated that he always had to try so hard to get it right. Even for the muggle card tricks, Q said it took years of practice and that he would still never be as good as the people—non-Magicians even—who picked it up one day, without a thought.

But as Eliot leaned against the wall and watched his diligent work, he thought that if he was given the opportunity, he would make sure Q knew how good his efforts looked on him. How every time he tried, it made Eliot want to try. How his earnestness was the most beautiful thing in the world. How Eliot could meditate on the movement of Quentin’s hands for the rest of his life and would find peace. 

He’d make sure he knew, if Q wanted to hear things like that.

—But one step at a time.

The border of the unused coat closet shone bright white, illuminating the darkened house. Brows falling under his beanie, Quentin glanced over at Eliot and angled his head toward the door. Eliot gave him a weak smile in response, and they quietly walked through the threshold and onto the green grass near the Cottage.

Eliot’s cheeks flushed with a sudden rush of warmth and the tingle of permeating magic.

Next to him, Q took several deep breaths and hung his chin to his chest, reacclimating to the feel of Brakebills like a weary wanderer sinking into a bubble bath. The comforts of home enveloped them both. For that one magnificent second, it was like no awkwardness existed between them at all.

Literally one second.

“So, uh,” Quentin cleared his throat, tucking his hair behind his ears, up and under the beanie, “thanks for the random company, I guess.”

“Q,” Eliot said, a splinter slicing through his heart. His fingers twitched to grab his shoulder, but he resisted. “Q, I wasn’t—I really did go to your dad’s to talk to you. I didn’t realize you were coming back tonight.”

“Because I didn’t tell you,” Quentin said, spitting the words out and holding his thumb to his temple. “Because I wanted a fucking _ second _ to try to—” He closed his eyes and licked his lips “—I wanted to ease into our new normal, Eliot.”

_ You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. _ “I’m sorry. I just thought—”

Quentin laughed, expression pained. “You thought what?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Eliot said helplessly. “I need to talk to you. Can I please talk to you?”

All the hope that had flared when they first saw each other had died. Quentin was skittery and stony, hugging himself and angling away from Eliot as much as he could. Whatever it was that had lit him up—that had made him speak with breathless wonder upon meeting his eyes in the living room—was nowhere to be found, not anymore.

Again, it made sense. It was the reasonable course of action. The expected turn of events.

Still hurt like a bitch.

Like he could read Eliot, Quentin sighed and his eyes fell down to the ground, looking sad and almost ashamed. He shook his head and let out another guttural laugh, directed inward.

“I’m not—” Quentin said suddenly, before kicking the grass and lifting it out of the root. “Eliot, I’m not trying to be hot and cold with you, okay? It’s just—I haven’t seen you in two fucking weeks but we’re texting all the time like nothing changed even though we both know everything changed and—and then out of nowhere you show up at my _ dad’s house _and I don’t know what it means? Or—or—or what it even could mean?”

Eliot took a step closer. “Q. It’s okay.”

“I know it’s okay because I know I’m allowed to react to shit,” Quentin said, harsh and frustrated. His eyes were wild and frantic, jumping everywhere but at Eliot. “But I don’t even know what I’m even reacting to right now? You just show up unannounced at my _ fucking dad’s house _ and imply that you and Julia are kind of getting along even though last I knew she wanted your head on a goddamn spike and—and then you give my dad goddamn _ flowers _ and then walk me to the portal in the goddamn snow. On New Year’s Eve? Like, what the fuck?”

Eliot really didn’t have a good answer to that. Any of it. He closed his eyes, digging the sharpest point of his sharpest tooth into the tip of his tongue.

“I was trying to be—”

Quentin stomped his foot down and tensed his jaw, swallowing. “Trying to be what, Eliot?”

_ Romantic _ seemed like the wrong word to use.

So Eliot rubbed the heels of his palms into his eyes and bit at the magically temperate air, annoyed at its falsehood for the first time since he arrived at Brakebills.

Staring up at the sky, he let out a breathy laugh and held his hands out. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Eliot looked at Quentin, rumpled and wrinkled in too many layers. His face was still splotched in pinks. His muscles twitched under his dumb hat. And silhouetted by the golden light of the Cottage in the distance, he glared right back, stone finally cracking.

“Yes,” Quentin hissed out through his teeth. “I wanna go for a goddamn walk.”

* * *

**6\. Q**

* * *

So they went for a goddamn walk.

The snow had slowed to a gentle twirl, starlight sprinkling down in the wind. The big trees overhead glistened in the moonlight, spotlighting their usual clearing like a blanket of diamonds. It was still early, eight o’clock at the latest. But the sounds of New Year’s revelers murmured in the distance. Melancholy trumpets crooned about cups of kindness, echoing through the still woods.

It was peaceful there, the place that had become Eliot’s favorite spot in the known universe. That tiny patch of mossy log, now covered in bright white ice. Shuffling his ruined leather shoes through the snow—at least three inches deep—Eliot tutted out a short warming spell, revealing the brown-green below the freeze. Gesturing at the free space to the taciturn and sullen Q, they both sat down and their joint breaths overtook any other audible sound.

Neither of them wore gloves and their skin was matching red, cracking from the dry air and cold. Quentin rubbed the pads of his fingertips along his own knuckles, contemplative and deliberate as the silent seconds ticked by. A gray cloud passed over the moon, but didn’t linger.

It took Eliot longer than it should have to realize that Q wasn’t going to say a damn word until he did. 

So he spoke.

“I got your letter,” Eliot said, voice ricocheting too loud in the hushed air. He felt Quentin shift uncomfortably and Eliot stared down at his own hands, watching red and white skin grow and recede around each other. “It sparked a whole thing for me. I wanted to tell you about it, but I also didn’t want to—I wanted to make sure I was ready.”

He could _ hear _ Quentin’s brow furrow, but he still said nothing.

Eliot swallowed and continued. “I made this list. It was of people and the ways I’ve—I mean, I even read that Joseph Campbell book you always talk about—”

“Wait, seriously?” Quentin couldn’t help himself with that one. “You read _ Hero With a Thousand Faces _?”

“Well, okay, I read the wiki about the idea of the Monomyth,” Eliot admitted quickly and Quentin snorted, a slightly amused sound. “But I thought a lot about, ah, noble quests and I tried to—it was like my own quest, you know? That’s what I called it.”

Quentin shot another look at him, voice pitching upward. “Uh, what?”

“It was an homage to, ah, our—” Eliot felt his heart pick up its pace, rendering his words too clumsy “—but Margo said you’d say it wasn’t—but it kept me focused on my list, you know? Are you following?”

He slid his eyes over to Quentin, who tilted his face with a tiny smile. His expression was warmer than it had been yet.

“Not even a little,” he said quietly, but not unkindly. Never unkindly.

Eliot gave him a cautious smile and then folded his hands together, resting his nose along the laced together groove. The stone of his ring was cold against the divot of his lip.

“I’ve made a lot of mistakes recently,” he said, a confession everyone already knew. “So I’ve been—I have a list of people I need to apologize to.”

“Oh.”

With one syllable, the world thudded to a stop. Eliot blinked a look over at Quentin, who had slumped down into himself. Even in the silvery light, Eliot could see a stinging redness formed in the whites of his eyes, the telltale twitch of his lips.

“Okay, yeah,” Quentin said, a cloud of vapor escaping with a small laugh. “I get it, El.”

Eliot didn’t think he did. He turned to face him and took tried his best to catch his eye. “No, Q. See, the thing is, I’ve been kind of working on a—“

But Quentin stood up abruptly, feet sliding and shuffling in the snow as he walked without aim toward the nearby tree. He stopped right in front of it and clenched his fists, the lines of his back tense.

“Eliot, it’s fine,” he said, sounding very much _ not _ fine. “I told you. I know. Let’s, uh, move on, okay?”

Every single part of Eliot screamed to take the out. 

To say, _ Okie-dokes, sounds good, kid. _ To laugh and pat his shoulder with a quick, _ Glad we cleared that up! _

But Eliot wasn’t going to be a coward the rest of his life. He may hate himself and he may never find worth in anything he did. But the wonderful people around him deserved better. Quentin deserved the whole goddamn world and even if Eliot couldn’t give him that, he could at least give him bravery.

Besides, if quests were easy, everyone would do them.

Eliot sat up tall and spoke clearly, “I don’t want to move on.”

On cue, Quentin whipped around, frantic eyes landing on him with a million new buzzing questions. His mouth fell open, but no sound escaped. But immediately, Eliot regretted what he said. Not because he didn’t mean it, but because, ah, well—

“Sorry, let me clarify,” Eliot said, holding his hand up. “I absolutely want everything I’ve said and done over the past month and a half to burn in a fire.”

Always a surprise, Quentin didn’t miss a beat. “Can you set a garbage fire further on fire?”

“I hope so,” Eliot said, swallowing down a powerless sob. “If that’ll get rid of it.”

Q blazed another long look at him before dropping his eyes down to the patterns of sticks and leaves in the snow. “It’s okay. I know you regret it. That’s what matters.”

“I don’t know if you do,” Eliot said, hoarse with the effort of getting these fucking difficult words out. “I don’t think you could know how _ much _ I regret it.”

A single muscle in Quentin’s jaw rolled. “What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want to move on, Q,” Eliot said, not even trying to hide the tremor of pleading from his tone. “Not in the way you think I do.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Quentin stared up at the sky, mouth pulling down into a frustrated frown. “But what does that _ mean _, El?”

His eyes returned and drowned Eliot standing. His tongue was too big for his mouth and all his planned words turned to ash, churning around in his chest.

“It means—” Eliot let out a harsh breath, hands shaking. Shit. He wanted to close his eyes, but he forced them to stay open. “It—it means that I fucked up, Q. I know I fucked up. And if I could take it back, all of it back—”

“All of what?”

“_ All of it _,” Eliot said, panicking as he shot a pleading look up at Quentin, begging him to understand. “I would take all of it back and do it right, do all of this the way it should have been—”

“Fucking hell, goddamn shit,” Quentin said, stalking forward and ripping his beanie off. It fell to the ground as he threw his arms up. Eliot reached down and grabbed it, threading the soft fabric through his hands.

He swallowed and tilted his head, trying to start over. “Q—”

“You know what? Fuck this. I want your final answer now, yes or no,” Quentin flared his nostrils and eyes, staring down at Eliot as though through the barrel of a gun. “Do you want to be with me?”

_ Doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt _—

“Yes,” Eliot breathed, heart and soul outside his body. Yes.

The answer was yes. The answer had always been yes. It was the only word in the whole world. Yes. Yesyes_ yes _. There was nothing else that Eliot had ever wanted, in his entire fucking life. Yes.

_ Yes. _

… In the meantime, Quentin’s face did a few complicated things.

He cocked his head back and forth, eyebrows disappearing under his curtain of hair. His eyes widened and narrowed, like a blinking lighthouse. His teeth made several chattering, clicking noises and a strangled sound made its way out his throat, through his closed mouth.

Finally though, Quentin managed to get out a choked and frozen, “What?”

“Yes, I want to be with you, Q,” Eliot said, defenseless at long last. He twisted his thumb between his fingers but didn’t look away. Couldn’t even if he wanted to. “So much.”

“What?” Quentin said again, shifting forward on his feet. He almost stumbled, but caught himself at the last second, shaking his head. His wide eyes didn’t move from Eliot, dreamlike. “Sorry. I—I was prepared for—um, I don’t know what to say.”

Oh, no. That spark of hope was back. 

Eliot swallowed and bit the tip of his tongue. He didn’t want to cry. Not yet, at least. It was probably going to happen at some point but—

But he had too much to say.

“Then can I talk?” Eliot asked, quietly. He actually wanted permission. “For a little?”

Quentin nodded, mouth open and eyes dazed. “Uh-huh.”

“Can you sit?” Eliot pushed his luck, as always, patting the space next to him. Maybe it was too much, but he was done being away from him. For a really long time.

Thankfully, Quentin was the most generous person in the world and so he only blinked once before lurching forward, landing on the log with a small crack of wood. The line of his thigh pressed against Eliot, warm and tingling, and his big eyes faced him straight on, brimming with light.

The spark flared.

“I’m so sorry, Q,” Eliot said, the line of his throat tightening with feeling over the word. “I was—I can’t even describe how ashamed of myself I am, for all the ways I hurt you. I was fucking terrified and I ran.”

Quentin frowned, a small tug of his lips. “Why?”

“Because that’s what I do,” Eliot said, eyes closing. “I am fundamentally—I used to think that I was fundamentally incapable of bringing anything good to any—I thought I couldn’t—_ fuck _.”

He grit his teeth and palmed at the sides of his head, one more burst of frustration away from ripping his hair out. He hated talking. He was so bad at talking. 

Fuck talking.

His knee lit up. Quentin brushed his thumb over it, back and forth, barely a touch. But the world narrowed and eased. The tight knot in Eliot’s chest unspooled.

“I think I have to take us to a not-so-fun place,” Eliot said softly, opening his eyes to watch Quentin touch him. He couldn’t look in his eyes, but he could look at his hands. His perfect hands.

“Shit,” Q chuckled, gentle and wry. “I thought _ fun _ was gonna be the central thesis of this conversation.”

Once a brat, always a brat.

Eliot smiled up at him, sad and resigned. In the reflected light off the snow, Quentin was somehow prettier than usual. The angles of his face glowed, shadowed only by the light dusting of stubble on his sharp jaw. His eyes were both bright and wary, andfilled with more compassion that Eliot had ever deserved in his whole life.

So he was brave again, for his Q.

“We need—” Eliot sucked in a breath and nodded slowly. “Q, I need to talk about what happened in April.”

Even with only those words, his body exploded into a mess of pins and needles, stinging and stabbing him until he choked and bled. Talking to Kady didn’t make it easier. Thinking about it didn’t make it easier. He was underwater, underground. He was adrift.

“Fuck,” Quentin said, an understatement. “Um, okay.”

The cold wind whipped all around and Eliot stared into the abyss. “You almost died because of me.”

At that, Q sat up straighter and his trusty finger went into the air. “Okay, actually, no. That’s not true. Lipson said I was never in any real danger of—“

Jesus.

Of course Quentin thought he could _ Well, technically _ his way out. Eliot almost laughed.

“For several hours,” Eliot clarified, slowly and carefully, “I thought you were going to die in part because of a shitty decision I made.”

“The truth serum?” Quentin shook his head. “Yeah, I mean, it wasn’t a great idea. But my issue with that was more, uh, philosophical than practical. I don’t see how it—”

“If I hadn’t involved myself, none of it would have happened,” Eliot said, speaking quietly to his hands. “Kady would have told you everything. Her reasons were—it was legitimate. We talked.”

“You talked to Kady?” Quentin sounded more shocked than he had ever heard him. “Voluntarily?”

“It was part of my quest,” Eliot said, knowing how ridiculous that sounded but he didn’t care. “Part of my whole journey of self-discovery and seeking forgiveness and trying to just—fucking get my shit together, you know?”

“Right,” Quentin said, eyes darting. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it. So instead he nodded and looked down. “Okay. Go on.”

“The thing is, Q, I have never—watching you fly across that room is the single worst memory I have,” Eliot said, glaring off into the dark and white knuckling his fingers into each other. He could feel his blunt nails cutting crescents into his palms. “I’m talking beyond the shit in Indiana, beyond my father, or—or the shit with Logan Kinnear or even every horrible thing I’ve done since because I’m a cruel and thoughtless son of a bitch. None of it holds a goddamn candle to the _ terror _I felt and the hopelessness and the—”

Eliot choked out a few tears, burying his head in his hands. He could feel Quentin shifting closer to him, could feel his eyes on him. 

“I want to be with you, Quentin, like, more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” he said quietly, lips brushing against his own palm. “But that’s secondary to how important you are to me, what you’ve brought to my life. And when I thought that I had—that I had killed you? Directly, indirectly, it didn’t fucking matter. I broke. I was broken. I’m still broken.”

Fuck talking, fuck talking, _ fuck talking _.

He lifted his head and let himself feel the piercing blur of tears, making the world a watercolor of silver and white and blue and black. “Todd Bates had to bind my hands, so I didn’t—just fucking destroy everything, so I didn’t attack Kady, so I didn’t burn the campus down. Margo had to drag my ass out of a drunken stupor so I could face reality, face you. I repressed the shit out of everything, tried to make light, because if I didn’t, I thought I’d—”

Eliot licked his lips, salty with tears, and he shook his head, hugging himself. “I don’t see how I can possibly be worthy of this. Of anything, but especially of you. But I want to be. I want to try, even if it’s selfish. Because _ you’re _ worthy of that. You deserve that. You deserve everything.”

A hitched breath was all Eliot heard from Quentin and it was enough to push him to the finish line. “The thing is, Q, I am so sorry. I’m sorry for all of it. I’m sorry for not listening to you. I’m sorry for doubting you. I’m sorry for who I am and I’m sorry for who I’ll probably be. But I’ll try, for you. If you’ll let me. If you’ll have me.”

With one last breath, Eliot slumped over and finally looked at Quentin, completely spent. Probably for a really fucking long time.

It wasn’t the speech he practiced.

But it would have to do.

Quietly, Quentin stared at him. Eliot could see his brain working through his eyes as he absorbed everything. His eyebrows spoke their private language, moving all around as he formulated, thousands of words building and building like they always did.

Eliot was entranced by him.

Still thinking at a screaming pitch, Quentin let out a soundless breath, mouth falling open and his hands twitched, ready to gesticulate. He brought one up to his lips and stretched it down the length of his chin, thinking and struggling through it. Then he swallowed and nodded, flitting his eyes back up, gentle and firm and ready. Eliot braced himself for whatever he was going to say, whatever difficult conversation they were about to embark on, closing his eyes and dipping his head.

It was too much.

But the next thing Eliot knew, warm arms wrapped around his shoulders.

Then an even warmer cheek nuzzled against his. Soft hair tickled his nose and mouth, and Eliot gasped out his first breath in weeks, months, _ years _.

With a sob building in his ribcage, he hugged Quentin back with abandon, squeezing him right against his chest and burying his face into the crook of his neck. They held each other in silence, bodies pressed in comfort, and the tension seeped away from his bones until all that was left was a luminous, fragile heart in the gentlest hands.

“You should have told me,” Quentin whispered, lips grazing his ear. Eliot shivered.

“Couldn’t,” was all he could manage to get out. Quentin hugged him somehow tighter.

“Someone should have told me,” he said thoughtfully, resting his chin on the slope of Eliot’s shoulder. “Julia should have told me.”

“Julia barely knew,” Eliot said, surprised at how genuine his defense was. He gripped the zippy fabric of Quentin’s coat between his fingers. “She was a wreck too. Didn’t leave your side, unless Lipson made her. Wasn’t worried about my bullshit.”

“Not bullshit,” Quentin said, nosing at the hinge of his jaw. A hand traveled to cup Eliot’s cheek, a thumb brushing back and forth along the grain of his stubble, making him weaken in his arms. “You’ve been carrying all this the whole time and I—I had no idea. I hate that. I hate that you went through that.”

Eliot sobbed a laugh into Q’s beautiful hair. “You’re the one who—“

But Quentin pulled back, taking his face between both hands and forcing his most intense gaze. Eliot’s heart did a flip, sparking through his whole body.

“I am fine,” Quentin said, big brown eyes the center of the universe. “This isn’t me being a martyr or whatever. This is me, having processed everything, out the other side _ fine _. And—and that, yeah, maybe you fucked up, but not to the point you’re burdening yourself with.”

Q reached his hand up and brushed snow out of his curls, smiling softly. He pressed their foreheads together and sighed, the sound reviving every dead part of Eliot’s heart.

“This is me telling you,” Quentin said, hand carding gently through his hair, sweet and soft, “that you aren’t alone here, okay?”

Eliot was his.

It was the wrong time. They had so much to say to each other still. But Eliot was weak and shameless and selfish and _ Quentin’s, _forever. 

His fate was sealed and his eyes slowly fell closed.

Eliot brushed their noses together and he murmured, “May I kiss you?”

“Oh, El,” Quentin said, quiet. His eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. “Please kiss me.”

Hope lighting up the world in glorious flame, there was nothing Eliot could do but comply. His hands found their way to Quentin’s face, his thumbs stroking light across his wide cheekbones. Reeling Q into his chest so he could feel the heat of him against the bitter cold, Eliot kissed him. It was closed mouthed, gentle and soft. He poured his soul into it. He poured his heart into it. The one that had always belonged to Quentin.

And Quentin clung right back to him, like by some miracle _ his _ heart belonged to _ Eliot _. His hands wrapped into Eliot’s snow covered hair and he tilted his head, deepening the kiss to slip his tongue against his. But just as Eliot’s pulse started thumping and his knees trembled with increasing want, Quentin broke away, panting with his forehead laid against his cheek.

He didn’t go far though, kissing a hot spark to the corner of his mouth as he said, “Okay, I’m ready to say something else now.”

Eliot just nodded, all out of words.

“I shouldn’t have tried to start something in Ibiza,” Quentin said, letting out a long sigh. He kissed Eliot’s cheek one more time and pulled away so they could look at each other. “Not when we were fucked up. I think that, uh, muddied things, maybe. I had so many other plans, but I couldn’t find the courage to act on them. I regret that a lot.”

Eliot delicately laced their fingers together. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

Quentin snorted and squeezed their hands tighter. He smiled, an uncomfortable thing. “Uh, then you need to get out more.”

“Q,” Eliot warned, flashing his eyes up. But Quentin just shrugged and scooted closer so the lines of their bodies pressed together from shoulder to ankle. He flipped Eliot’s hand back and forth in his own.

“So, like, do you remember when we were on a walk and you asked me what my list would look like?” Quentin smiled, genuine, like he was telling a joke. “For someone you could set me up with?”

Oh, because it _ was _ a joke. So Eliot appropriately snorted in response.

“I remember,” he said, shaking his head. He slid a glance over, half amused. “I was kind of trying to distract myself from some shit.”

Quentin gave him a lopsided grin back and Eliot felt his stomach somersault. Fuck, he was cute.

“Yeah, I see that now,” Q said, leaning back on his hands. He forgot about the ice though and hissed them back, rubbing them together with a frown. “Anyway, well, I—uh, I had this plan, where I was going to go up to you and say that I made a list and I was ready for you to be a matchmaker for me.”

Eliot wasn’t—

Okay, he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

He took a breath and frowned, trying his best to remember that Quentin had just hugged him and kissed him and that all signs pointed to _ Somehow, Some Fucking Way, You Haven’t Lost Your Chance, Dumbass _. But Eliot was never good at directionality, so his nerves still bounced off each other.

He frowned, a tiny and confused thing. “What?”

“I know. It was—just let me explain?” Quentin laughed at himself again. “The idea was that as I started telling you the list, it would become obvious that I was actually talking about, uh, you.”

The burning hope had transcended into goddamn fireworks.

“Oh,” Eliot said, feeling his smile beam out his eyes.

“I was gonna be like, _ I really want someone who is warm and open and well dressed and funny and makes me feel _—“ Quentin tucked his lower lip between his teeth and Eliot wanted, wanted, wanted. “It was stupid.”

“No, it sounds cute,” Eliot said, brushing his thumb across Quentin’s knuckles. But at the small huffing sound of disbelief beside him, he smiled. “Okay, a little convoluted. But cute.”

So fucking cute. Eliot wanted to kiss him again, more than he wanted air. But he waited. Quentin needed longer to process. It was time Eliot gave him the space to do that.

“Well, I’m nothing if not a little convoluted,” Quentin said, playful eyebrows lifting. Wasn’t that the damn truth, Eliot thought with a grin of his own. God, it was the best.

But then Q’s whole face softened, glints of unwelcome sadness in his eyes. “But at the end of the day, I’m just not the guy who can make big romantic gestures, you know? I get too in my head and words don’t—they don’t—I can’t—“

He pushed his lips into a tight line, eyes closing in frustration. Eliot brushed his hair away from his face, more to get him back on track than anything.

“I’m following you.”

Quentin nodded, leaning his face into the touch with a soft sigh.

“When I feel things, I feel them intensely,” he said, laughing a little. “Shocker, I know. But, um, I can’t let them overwhelm me or I’ll—“

Q swallowed, licking his lips and staring right back at Eliot with that same intensity and determination as before.

“And the way I feel about you could have taken me under,” Quentin continued, like he was forcing an evenness to his words. “I couldn’t think about it, let alone talk about it. I mean, god, you know what I’m like.”

Eliot smiled, fond and helpless. “I do.”

“It was too much though and it—eventually, I couldn’t ignore it and I just became—“ Quentin let out a shaky breath and his hands started jerking, almost manic. Eliot gently let them go. “I took the shittiest possible path because I couldn’t stand it anymore. And the whole Spain shit was actually only one of many shitty plans. Like, I was going to tell you on Halloween.”

That was fucking news to him. His smile widened despite Quentin’s clear distress at the idea. “What? Seriously?”

“Yeah, my timing is impeccable,” Quentin said with a growl and an eye roll. He stretched his fingers wide and then wrung them around each other, gritting his teeth. “But still, like, I couldn’t find the words and then fucking Alice showed up and—I couldn’t. So I tried to show you with actions, which I thought you’d prefer anyway. But shit got fucked.”

He dropped his head and closed his eyes, defeated. With a rush of fierce fondness for him, Eliot tipped his chin up and waited for him to open his eyes.

“I’m not saying hooking up in Spain was the right call,” he said, once Q finally did. “But I am saying that none of what happened after is your fault.”

“No, uh, _ yeah _, I know,” Quentin said, maybe a touch sardonic. Fair. “But I still wish I had gone about it differently and it's important to me that you know that.”

“Consider it acknowledged,” Eliot said, taking the chance to tuck another lock of Quentin’s hair behind his ear. He let his fingers linger because why the fuck not.

“I know it won’t be easy. I want you to know that I hear you and I understand what you’re saying about how difficult this kind of thing is for you,” Quentin said, his eyes tracing all around Eliot’s face, like he couldn’t believe he was sitting in front of him. “But I’m glad you’re at least open to giving this a chance.”

That hit Eliot’s chest wrong. “Q.”

Quentin kept talking though, taking Eliot’s free hand again and bringing it to his pounding chest, eyes falling closed. “‘Cause I think we could work, El. I _ really _ think we could work and—and I know I’m not your obvious type and I know that relationships aren’t what you—“

Oh, sweetheart.

No.

“Q, look at me,” he whispered, running his thumb along the shell of his ear. After a moment, Quentin opened his eyes again and Eliot held them with his own. “That’s not what this is. This isn’t me deciding to give monogamy a shot and then see where it goes.”

Quentin’s sweet face fell, cautious. “Then what is it?”

Heart pounding, Eliot couldn’t quite bear to look in those quicksand eyes, so he focused on their tangled hands, on the feel of Quentin’s restless heartbeat against his knuckles. Words jumbled in his brain and spilled artless on his tongue. He was clumsy and lost, but not weak. At least he wasn’t weak, not anymore.

“It’s not—the way I feel is—uh, I need you to—this isn’t just—for me—that I—“ Eliot closed his eyes, frustrated.

Okay, it was going to be harder than he thought.

But when his hand lifted and gentle lips pressed firm against each of his knuckles, everything melted away. Spring arrived in splendor and the words gathered between his lips.

“I love you, Quentin,” Eliot whispered. His eyes stayed closed in his prayer. “I am—I’m _ in love _ with you. I’ve been so in love with you for so long.”

“El._ ” _

It was a broken whisper on the wind. Eliot tightened his grip and his eyes, the words coming as effortless as he always pretended to be. It was like breathing. It was easier than breathing.

“I’m all in. All in, from now on. You and me. That’s what I want,” he continued, heart crackling like the heavy air after a lightning strike. “Is—is that what you want?”

When Eliot pulled back to finally look him in the eye, he felt like that kid all over again, the one he had thought long dead and buried. The shy dreamer in Whiteland, scared of the monsters lurking in the house of mirrors. Terrified and lost and forgotten. But full of more burning hope than anything could bear. 

His fragile heart pounded and he waited, as an unparalleled wonder crossed over his favorite eyes.

“You love me?” Quentin was breathless, blinking like he was trying to be certain he wasn’t between worlds, that he wasn’t in a dreamlike stasis. “You—you love me?”

How could he not? 

“Of course I do, baby,” Eliot whispered, brushing the tips of his fingers across his gorgeous face. “I think I’ve always loved you. From the start.”

Quentin let out a yelping laugh.

He clapped a hand over his mouth in shock. The trees echoed the sound, rumbling a plummet of soft snow downward. A sleeping bird fluttered awake and away. The whole world was still and silent, and Eliot couldn’t breathe.

Then.

Quentin fucking _ barrelled _ at him, nearly toppling them over into the clearing with a fierce, tooth clacking, perfect kiss. And then another. And another. And another.

“Oh my god, thank god, holy shit, thank god,” Q gasped, the words running together between frantic kisses, hands gripping at the lapel of his coat and pressing as close as possible. “I love you too. God, I love you too. _ Fuck _, El.”

Quentin loved him.

Quentin _ loved him. _

The ground beneath their feet broke open with a bursting bright light.

Eliot wrapped his hands around Q’s face, deepening the kiss with all the wild and wonderful delirium in his heart. He kissed him thoroughly, like the world was ending, like life was fucking beginning. His skin was alive and thrumming, and he bowed Q backwards, fingers tangled in his soft hair and panting out desperate breaths, sharing space and sparks and the world with the only man who mattered.

“Love you so much,” Eliot murmured, anguished. He kept kissing him, over and over. “_ Love _ you, Q. I love you.”

He wasn’t sure how long they stayed there, wrapped in each other, finding their breath again, finding some measure of solace from weeks, months, years of combined heartache. But eventually, their elation evened out into something soft and slow. The calm beauty of feeling each other, of being there, together. Eliot could have sworn their hearts were beating in time, impossible as it was.

Then Quentin pulled away to press one gentle kiss to his lips again—just a tiny thing. It signaled a shift, a movement away from their captured bliss. Stubborn, Eliot kissed him more, not really ready to let go. He kept him close, fingers twirling strands strands of hair over and around, over and around.

Quentin was stubborn too though. Even more so than Eliot.

Thank god. 

He pulled away and chuckled at the truly embarrassing whine that came from Eliot’s throat, the way he chased after his lips. Q thumbed at his mouth, an iridescent smile wide on his perfect face as he tilted his head and traced his eyes all over him, like he couldn’t believe it.

But finally, his endless gaze settled on his eyes and he shook his head, sighing, “Jesus Christ, you messed with my head, you dick. What the hell?”

Eliot frowned.

Okay.

“Oh, I thought the talking part—” he pursed his lips and cocked a brow “—was, like, over now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Quentin snorted, pressing another quick smooch to his lips. “Funny.”

“That’s me,” Eliot said, swallowing and biting the inside of his cheek. “Hilarious.”

Shit. Okay.

Quentin didn’t respond. He brushed his curls away from his brow with an unspeakable tenderness and smiled sadly. Then he asked again, “What the hell, baby?”

_ Baby._ Eliot could have cried. Literally. His eyes were blurring.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Eliot said, with a pained laugh. “I hope you know I—god, I didn’t mean to. Ironically, I was trying to protect you from me.”

“But I never feel safer than when I’m with you,” Quentin said, kissing him again for good measure. Eliot melted into it. “You make me feel safe.”

_ Well, that’s stupid _.

Despite the sweet, beautiful boy in his arms, Eliot absolutely had to bite down that instinct. 

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. If this was going to work, he had to at least try to accept some of Q’s faith. He had to try to trust in it. But at the same time—

“You say that,” Eliot said, tracing his thumb along the bow of Q’s lip, “but I think I’ve proved that my whole _ I’m not good at this _thing may have had some legs.”

Quentin laughed, a full bodied sound. “Yeah, no fucking argument.”

There was no cruelty in the words, not even derision. Q was still smiling like he won the lottery. Smiling wide and bright and dimpled, showing all his teeth, in the same way Eliot was sure he had on the day he found out magic was real, wandering around Brakebills arm-in-arm with Julia, presented with the truth of everything he had always secretly known.

Before, Eliot had always felt wistful about that fact. That he hadn’t been there, hadn’t known Q on that day, hadn’t had the privilege and honor yet. But this was better, seeing him like this. Seeing him look at Eliot like _ Eliot _was the magic.

It was enough to make him believe again.

“But once I touched you,” Eliot said, breathing out the words. “It was all I could think about. And I just—I couldn’t stop.”

“You didn’t have to stop,” Quentin said, tucking his face into the open space of his coat, brushing his lips softly along the skin of Eliot’s neck. “I didn’t want you to stop.”

Eliot wrapped his arms around Q’s shoulders and tugged him in as tight as he could, chest seizing. “I know. I’m sorry. Pushing you away was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I was—I was afraid I would hurt you again.”

The lips on his pulse point frowned. “You mean because of April?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, lacking a more eloquent answer. With a soft feathering release of breath, Quentin tipped his face up at him.

“Not now,” he said, prefacing. He curled his fingers around Eliot’s jaw. “But sometime soon, we have to talk about that more, okay?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said again, knowing it was true. But he was still—lacking. He cleared his throat and nodded, tucking Quentin under his chin. “Yeah.”

“Okay,” Q said, cuddling into him. “Works for me.”

Then they sat together, warm in the cold.

“I’ll do anything to make it up to you,” Eliot said after a quiet moment, running his hand up and down Q’s arm. “Anything so you trust me. So you forgive me.”

He would brave fire and flood.

“I do forgive you,” his generous Q said instead. He stretched upward to kiss the dimple on his chin. Then he sighed, jaw ticking. “I mean, like, honestly, I’ll probably be mad again at some point. I need time to process shit.”

Eliot kissed his hair. “I know.”

Despite his half joking hope before, he didn’t actually expect this to be a one and done thing. It was already beyond his wildest dreams. He wasn’t going to fuck it up by hiding.

“But I forgive you,” Q said, pressing his forehead to Eliot’s jaw. ”Especially now that I get it more.”

“Yeah,” Eliot breathed again. He laced their fingers together, still in awe that he could.

“But mostly, I’m just—I’m so fucking relieved,” Q almost sobbed out, voice catching. “I thought I’d have to pretend I don’t love you.”

Eliot kissed his hair, hands trembling. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.” It wasn’t, but Q was remarkable. “You’re here—we’re both here now,” Quentin continued, not at all talking about the log they were sitting on, tightening his hand into Eliot’s. “We made it here. That’s what matters.”

Overwhelmed, Eliot brought their joined hands to his lips and murmured a quick warming spell. Quentin’s beautiful fingers were cracking red and that was wholly unacceptable. It was his job to take care of him now. As it always should have been.

“C’mere,” Eliot said, low as the snow-covered moss underfoot. Quentin smiled. His eyes twinkled up, barely an inch away.

“I’m right here,” he said, popping a quick kiss up on his lips. Eliot smiled and kissed him back, slower and more thoughtful. They stayed like that, quiet and connected, until the world fell away.

“Closer,” he whispered into the softest lips, as though _ close enough _ could ever exist. “Please, Q.”

Eliot pulled on Quentin’s forearms, tightening them around his waist. He buried his nose in his hair, eyes closing in his warmth. Eliot’s hand found the nape of Q’s neck and pressed promises into the soft skin there. He murmured the new words over and over again, saying them for himself as much as Quentin.

I love you.

_ I love you. _

“I love you,” he said again, kissing his forehead and resting his cheek where his lips had been. “I love you.”

“I love you too, El,” Quentin said quietly, but it was the only sound in the world. Eliot closed his eyes. “And I’m really sorry too. We both fucked up.”

Jesus. 

Eliot sighed, nuzzling him and speaking slowly. “Q, you have nothing to be—“

But Quentin shifted against him and let out a low grunt, “You mean except when I was a passive aggressive asshole who gave you the cold shoulder, yelled at you in the middle of a party, got pissed when you wouldn’t fuck me, and then ran away for two weeks by the cover of night?”

He was so fucking dramatic.

Everyone thought Eliot was the dramatic one of the two of them. But Quentin said shit like _ by the cover of night _ without even blinking.

The perfect man.

“That’s the least charitable interpretation possible,” Eliot said, dropping another kiss on his forehead. He slid his fingers into his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp in soothing circles. “But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“I was an entitled dick,” Quentin said, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “I was no better than Mike.”

Oh, boy.

Eliot clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Ah, I spoke too soon.”

“I’m serious,” Q said and fuck, Eliot knew he was, which made it so much worse. “I thought you didn’t want me and I—”

“You were hurting,” Eliot said, hugging him tight and cutting his bullshit right the fuck off. “As established, you’re allowed to feel things and react to them. I didn’t make any of this shit easy.”

“It was the same shit I did with Julia.”

Eliot twisted his face down, so he could look Q in the eye without losing an inch of space between them.

(It hurt his back but it was worth it.)

“Quentin, every single one of our friends knew I was in love with you,” he said, stroking his hair and laughing at himself, a very stupid man. “You were reading what was right in front of you and I denied it like a total fucking ostrich-slash-massive asshole.”

“Your word should have mattered more than my interpretation,” Mr. Principled said, jutting his very principled chin upward, in a principled manner. “I should have accepted it from the start and moved on.”

“Real life is messier than that, sweetheart,” Eliot said gently, before closing his eyes and pressing their brows together. “I mean, thank_ god _ you didn’t move on."

“I wouldn’t have been able to,” Quentin said, kissing him softly, sweetly, “no matter what.”

Eliot felt his chest clench and he clung to him. “Baby.”

But Q continued speaking, soft and wavering, like he was holding back tears. “But no matter what, you’re the best thing that’s ever—and even if you hadn’t felt the same about me, I would still would feel that way.”

Eliot gripped him tighter and kissed his cheek, messy and desperate. He breathed into him, not having realized how badly he needed to hear that, how desperate he was. He had gone so long, denying himself everything he wanted.

He was starved for air.

“It was shitty of me to—“ Q started to say, but Eliot shushed him, breathing right in his ear.

“Stop,” Eliot said, warm and broken, overwhelmed. _ My love. _“It’s okay. I know. It’s okay.”

“What I’m saying is that I was hurt, but I was also aiming to hurt and that should be my last instinct,” Quentin said and Eliot realized he was crying with a pained jump. “It’s not something I should do to you of all people, the most important—”

“Come on, Q, enough,” Eliot said, running his hands up and down his back. The brown corduroy of his shearling jacket was fuzz soft and patterned rough. “I’m the last person to throw stones over some minor league shit said during a fight. If anything, Daddy taught you well.”

Quentin sniffed and pulled back, playful eyes popping up. “Yeah, uh. Please don’t call yourself Daddy during serious conversations.”

Eliot kissed and smiled at his temple, brushing a stray tear from his cheek. “No promises.”

The wind moved through icicles, chiming over the frozen ground. The line of Eliot’s back was numb with the chill, but the space between him and Quentin was humming, _ vibrating _ with untold warmth. The quiet around them should have made that screaming in his gut— _ You don’t deserve this you don’t deserve him you’re a worthless piece of shit _—too loud to bear. But the feel of soft hair on his cheek and the dizzying breaths on his neck made muffled it to a murmur. Present, but not pervasive.

It was low enough to keep Eliot talking, at any rate.

“I got a job offer,” he said, admittedly apropos of nothing. He wasn’t going to hide shit from Q anymore though. Not even for a second longer than necessary.

Fairly, Quentin gave him a confused frown. “What?”

“For after graduation. In the city. I’m supposed to give an answer this week,” Eliot said, pulling back just enough so he could look Q in the eye as he told him, keeping a tight grip on his hands. “But, uh, I wanted to talk to you about it first. Well, at least, if this worked out and everything.”

Quentin chuckled and then kissed him, featherlight. Eliot floated away.

“What’s the job?”

—Eliot crashed back down.

He sucked in a breath and cleared his throat, stretching his mouth into a hopefully convincing smile. It didn’t work. As soon as he flicked on the expression, Quentin narrowed his eyes into suspicious slits.

Goddammit.

“So, ah, there’s, like, one tiny detail that I should start with before getting into any of that,” Eliot said, pulling his lip in and out between his teeth. He smiled again, darting his gaze over to a very interesting dead branch in the snow. “It’s totally not a big deal and you’re going to laugh that I was—“

Quentin grit his teeth. “Eliot.”

“Idri would be my boss,” Eliot said quietly, meeting his eyes again. Quentin blinked, the soft warmth vanishing. His brows ticked up and his lips pulled down.

“Idri.” No expression in his tone. Shit.

Eliot spoke quickly, trying his level best to explain as rationally and factually as possible. “He came to Brakebills in part to get a reference from Fogg and to observe how I organize a casual party.”

“Idri.”

“It was all a professional thing.”

“Idri.”

_ Shit. _

Eliot took his hand and ducked his head, pouring out every ounce of reassurance that he could. “Quentin, if you don’t want me to—”

Q barked a laugh and snatched his hands away, crossing them over his chest. He glared, sniffing his nose and wrinkling his brow. Shitshit_ shit. _

“I don’t know, El,” he said in that one particularly sharp and sarcastic voice of his, “do you think I want you to work with the guy you were fucking while I was goddamn heartbroken?”

His ribcage compressed and shrunk to an atom at the word _ heartbroken _. But that was a reality. He had to fucking accept that he did that and make up for it, in every way he could. Including clarifying other parts of reality, misinterpreted through that heartache.

“We never fucked,” Eliot said as fast and firm as he could, laying an imploring hand on Quentin’s knee. “Nothing happened between us.”

Quentin blinked again, but this time the warmth crept back in. “What?”

“Idri and I never fucked. We never even—_ nothing _ happened between us,” Eliot said, still knee jerk embarrassed at his inability to close the deal. Old habits and everything. “I couldn’t. I was too hung up on you.”

“Are you serious?” Quentin blinked rapidly, obviously trying not to smile. He was so cute.

Eliot smiled for him and tucked his hair behind his ear. It fell forward again, stubborn. He was more stubborn though, and he tucked it again. He would do it a thousand times.

“I know it doesn’t necessarily make it better,” Eliot said quietly, still tucking his hair on a loop. It was just too silky to stay put. He would have to really dedicate himself to the task.

“Uh, no, that makes it a little better,” Quentin said, letting a laugh out. He rolled his eyes at himself. “I’m kind of a simple guy.”

“First way I would describe you,” Eliot said and _ oh _, Q’s answering smile did something cruel to his heart. “Does it also help if I tell you he’s renewing his vows with his wife, like, right now?”

He got the response he wanted, a sputter of lips. 

“His _ wife _?”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, running his tongue over his teeth and laughing. “I know, right?”

“What the fuck?”

“Eh, apparently he’s pansexual.”

Quentin flashed a quick glare up at him.

“It’s not the _ woman _ part that surprises me, Eliot,” he said, a mockery of patience. “It’s the _ married _ part.”

Oh.

Eliot shrugged. “They were separated, I guess.”

Quentin shook his head quickly, cross-eyed, like he was trying to rearrange his whole world. His smile widened, nearing gleeful, and his arms relaxed, returning to their proper place on Eliot.

“Wow. Okay. Wow. Um, that is—weird. But also does help,” Q said, still grinning. But then he snorted and his eyes glinted, sly and a touch scornful. “Plus, you know, he probably couldn’t keep up with you anyway. In terms of stamina.”

Quentin looked so peacock proud of his stupid, bratty joke that Eliot almost didn’t want to give him any shit for it.

Almost.

“Twenty years from now,” Eliot said because fuck it, he was done pretending, “I’m going to remind you that you relentlessly referred to forty-four as old.”

Quentin’s eyes went absurdly soft for a second before brightening into mischief. “Won’t matter. Since I’ll still be younger than you.”

Eliot scoffed, “I will age like a fine wine.”

“Yeah, I know, you’ll definitely be a silver fox,” Quentin said, running a gentle hand across his curls, contemplative. “I’ll probably have more of a Papa Smurf thing going on.”

Skeptical, Eliot pinched his brow. “But can you even grow a beard like that?”

“Uh, please,” Q scoffed with a sidelong glance. “Jesus wept.”

Yeah, Eliot kissed the shit out of him.

After, he wound his arms around Q to keep him close and breathed him in, the toasty warm scent filling his lungs and giving him new vibrancy. The whole goddamn world had new vibrancy now. 

“But seriously, if you’re not comfortable,” Eliot said, returning to the subject at hand, “I’ll turn it down. No questions asked, okay?” 

When he said that, Quentin just kissed his throat with a grumbling sigh. It wasn’t exactly wholehearted support yet. 

And maybe it didn’t matter anyway.

Eliot licked his lips and hitched a sharp laugh, stomach clenching. “Besides, at any rate, it’s kind of a dumb job. Planning fancy parties and bullshit.”

“That’s what you love though,” Q said, frown evident in his voice. He didn’t move from his little neck nest. “Details and people and hands-on shit.”

“Yeah,” Eliot said, laughing again, all the harsher. “Dumb.”

Quentin tipped his head up so Eliot could actually see his frown. “What are you talking about?”

“I know you don’t respect Idri’s work,” Eliot said, rationally. Factually. “You said he was pathetic for being at Encanto Oculto. For _ working _ at Encanto Oculto.”

Giant eyes widened impossibly. “El, no—“

“But the reality is, if I take this job, that could be me,” Eliot continued, cutting off whatever placating shit he was going to say. The back of his neck burned. “I mean, not for, like, orgies or I hope not, unless you want that—but—“

Quentin cut him off by pressing a single finger to his lips. It was distracting. Eliot wanted to take it in his lips, swirling his tongue around the tip, sucking on it a little. But it wasn’t the right time.

(It wasn’t the right time. It wasn’t the right time. _ It wasn’t the _—)

“Hey, uh, no. No. I was—I was just being a jerk,” Q said, so goddamn sincere. “Of course I respect what you do, El. You’re incredible at everything. Like, annoyingly.”

Eliot bit down on his molars and shook his head. “So I should do something more.”

Quentin believed that magic was for bettering the world, for fixing what was broken. And all Eliot could offer was frivolous bullshit. It was lopsided.

“You bring small joys to this bleak fucking world. It’s way more than most people,” Quentin said, killing him standing. “I mean, shit, I’m in awe of you.”

Jesus.

Somewhere, somehow, Margo was gagging over her own too-sweet vomit. But Eliot was fucking _ crying _, disbelieving that this was actually happening to him. What the fuck?

“Oh,” he said, choking the words out over his tight throat. A tear escaped and he couldn’t even care. “Oh.”

“You say that a lot,” Quentin said, kissing the tear track because of course. Goddammit.

“I guess I thought I wasn’t—” Eliot nuzzled into Q’s hair and huffed, “you know, intellectual enough for you.”

He got less sympathy for that one than he expected. 

Instead, Q snorted. “Is that why the whole you-should-date-Alice shit?”

Oh. Right.

Yeah, he’d actually forgotten about that.

“That was run-of-the-mill gay boy self-hatred,” Eliot said, resting his chin on the top of his head. They fit together perfectly. “But I’m sure it played a part. Plump little supporting role.”

Q played with his rings with a light sigh, fingers trailing small tingles of fire around the metal. “But that’s ridiculous because you're, like, already a thousand times smarter than me—“

“Demonstrably false.”

“—which, yeah, is fucking _ hot _,” Quentin kept talking like Eliot didn’t say anything. Bold already, goodness gracious. “But mostly, I mean, I love you. I don’t want anything else.”

Well, wasn’t that a kick in the nuts?

Eliot was the luckiest goddamn asshole on the planet. He buried his face against Quentin’s warm neck and let himself breathe, his body remembering how all over again.

“Love you too,” he said simply, not moving from the safe space of Quentin. He could move in, maybe. Get a nice long term lease. Few years. Few decades.

“Or _ anyone _ else,” Quentin said, snorting again. “Especially Alice, what the fuck?”

Eliot sighed, kissed his warm skin. “I know.”

“Random as shit.”

“Oh, come on, she’s gorgeous,” Eliot said, popping up to give him a skeptical look. “You’re not blind.”

Quentin wisely changed tactics. “We’d be a neurotic mess together.”

Eliot laughed. Okay, true.

Alice and Quentin would be the biggest neurotic mess of all time.

They would awkwardly dance around each other, arms and ideas thrashing about as they tried to figure each other the hell out. Alice would want her space, Q would—not. Quentin would want to talk about magic nonstop, Alice would— not. They would rarely, if ever, be able to make eye contact with each other. And both of them had a penchant for the overwrought, so their fights would be epic and world ending and door slamming, over the stupidest shit.

Also, the fact that Alice preferred pussy would probably get in their way, on occasion.

(But that wasn’t his tale to tell.)

Still, even Eliot had to admit they would look very pretty fucking each other. You know, objectively speaking. It was at least worth considering.

For science.

“No, yeah, you’re right,” Eliot said, chuckling to himself and wrapping Quentin in closer. “It would be exhausting. We’d all plan your murders three days in. It would be terribly sad, but terribly necessary.”

Q smirked. “You and Kady could grief bang about it.”

“Too soon, asshole,” Eliot said, poking his shoulder. He was half-serious. Three-fourths serious.

… Okay, it was a little soon, for real. He pushed it down though. If Quentin wanted to joke about it, Quentin could joke about it. Eliot would get over it. Eventually, he’d get over it.

But Quentin’s eyes fell a little and he lifted one side of his mouth into a soft grin, brushing his fingers along Eliot’s face. He kissed him again, still painfully soft. But Eliot was starting to feel the growing tension down to his soul.

And, well, other places.

He wanted more than the moment called for. Always wanted so much, too much. Couldn’t help it. Q was very wantable.

“I thought I was _ sweetheart _ now,” Quentin said against his lips with a teasing smile. Eliot hummed and brought his hand around the back of his neck, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’ve always been,” he said softly, truthfully. He smiled wider. “But you’re still an asshole too. My complex kitten.”

Quentin flipped him off and Eliot felt like his heart was going to burst. “You’re the asshole.”

“Biggest on the block,” Eliot said with a wink and a ruffle of Q’s hair for good measure. He started to grumble, so Eliot kissed him, deeper and firmer than before. He was getting restless. Talking to Q was difficult and wonderful and _ affirming _. But—

But god, they had waited a long time.

Quentin moaned softly against his mouth, curling their tongues together. Eliot thrilled at taking his lip between his teeth, tugging enough to remind him what they were missing out on, what they were delaying the longer they were out in the cold. Eliot ran his fingers under his coat, along the worn fabric of his flannel. He could feel his heartbeat, the curves of his chest, the heat of him. It had been too long. Too long.

Eliot broke away with a panting gasp, not sure he’d really be able to keep his hands to himself if he didn’t. He wanted to strip them down to nothing, but unfortunately hypothermia wasn’t exactly sexy. The injustices of the world continued without regard.

With a tortured keening sound, Quentin chased his lips once, but then brushed their noses together and curled into him with a deep breath.

“But, like, can we talk more about the job stuff later?” Q couldn’t seem to help it and kissed his jawline as he spoke. Eliot wasn’t going to complain. “And the whole insane thing about me being smarter than you? I have a lot of thoughts about that but I’m processing and—”

Eliot shushed him and leaned their temples together, pulling him into his arms. He could do this for a little longer.

(Even if it was getting really fucking cold.)

“Of course. Whatever you need. But really, it’s not a big deal. I could get a job in my sleep,” Eliot lied and said honestly at once. “You should see the first draft of my thesis. It’s fucking spectacular.”

“Or I could not be a jealous dickhead,” Quentin said with an inward groan. But then he smiled up at him, genuine and too touchable. “I would love to read your thesis though.”

“Mmm,” Eliot agreed lightly. Then he grinned, eyebrows waggling. “And I can’t _ wait _ to read your thousands of margin notes.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes, tiny smile sparking. “I feel like you’re being sarcastic.”

“Never,” Eliot said, touching his hand to his chest and gasping. Quentin elbowed him and nestled his head back in the crook of his neck.

“I’ve been told that my margin notes have really helped people consider the underlying discourse of their thought process,” Quentin said, sniffing once. “That they help define the core of the bigger questions a paper is trying to address.”

“Julia’s full of shit.”

“You’re full of shit.”

Eliot smiled down at the top of his head and rested his forehead there.

“I’m scared, Q.”

He didn’t realize he spoke until he spoke. He wasn’t used to words pouring out him. Ones that weren’t pretty bullshit anyway.

“Okay,” Quentin said, simply. He tangled their fingers together. “Of?”

Eliot wasn’t sure how to turn the faucet off. So he let it all stream the fuck out, with no end.

“I’m scared I’m going to fuck this up. That I’m not enough. That I’m too much. That I have too much—too much shit, too much baggage to do this right. That there’s no way I can be what you need, no matter how much I love you. I mean, god, I’m a fucking mess. I know you know that I’m a mess, but I don’t think it’s something that’s going to—it’s probably not changing. And I think I’m, like, _ broken _ in ways that I don’t want to put on you, but I’m too selfish to stay away. Or maybe I have to stop saying shit like that, I don’t know. Maybe that’s the first step. But I’m not even sure how to do that, let alone be what I want to be. For you or even just—in general. I don’t know where to start, not really. I don‘t know how to do any of this, Q.”

The words hung in the air, like their breath.

Quentin pulled Eliot’s hand up to his mouth and kissed his fingers, gentle and thoughtful, lips achingly soft.

“It’s, uh, kinda rude to quote someone’s internal monologue back at them, you know.” Q closed his eyes and rubbed his nose along the grooves of his knuckles. “FYI.”

Eliot laughed despite himself, an unattractive sound. Wet and honking in the cold. “Come on. You know how wonderful I think you are. I don’t think I ever hid that.”

He hoped not.

“And how do you think I feel about you?” Quentin took Eliot’s wind numb hand, stroking his thumb back and forth along his wrist. “You know I don’t—“

Q frowned, grunting from the back of his throat as he tried to find the words he wanted. He stared off into the darkness.

“—I don’t want some, like, hypothetical perfect version of you, you know that, right?” Quentin said softly. “I love you as you are. Now. Uh, mess and all.”

Fuck_ . _

“You think that, for now, but—“ Eliot started to say, his hope burning him alive, too reckless, as he flew to the center of the sun. _ Icarus ascending. _

But Quentin cut him off, stony-voiced. “Don’t do that.”

“Sorry,” Eliot whispered. Shit, the one thing he said he wouldn’t do. “Sorry. I’m trying to—I don’t mean to imply you don’t know yourself or what you want.”

“Maybe you don’t _ mean _ it,” Q said, laughing with a bite, “but—“

“I’m sorry,” Eliot said again, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”

Quentin held his gaze and then nodded, ever accepting and ever generous. He sighed, brushing his hair back with a bright red hand. The strands were wet and would freeze over with the dropping temperature and the rising snow.

They needed to go inside soon.

But then Q said, “I’m scared you’ll change your mind. Wake up, panic, and run.”

He said it quietly, without judgment.

It decimated Eliot.

“I get that,” he said, shaky and struggling for air. He closed his eyes. “I’m not—I’m not sure if there's anything I can do or say right now that will alleviate that. But I promise you, if you give me a chance to prove my—“ his throat almost closed over the scary word, but he managed “—my _ devotion _, I’ll make it up to you, any way I can.”

Quentin smiled into the snow, still drawing tiny patterns on Eliot’s hand, in circles and hearts.

“We’ll figure it out together, okay?” Q set his jaw and his brow, determined as ever before. “We don’t have to be, like, experts.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Seriously. Thank _ fuck _. “Considering I’m about as novice as you can get.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, jostling his shoulder into his side. “Yeah, ‘cause I’m a fucking relationship sensei.”

“You are a fucking dork,” Eliot said with all the affection in the world, kissing his head. “So you’ve got that going for you.”

“That’s always been my most attractive quality,” Quentin said with a laugh, as though it wasn’t true. Then he sniffed, gripping his hand. “But seriously, just—um, keep talking to me, okay? If you actually talk to me and tell me what’s going on, I can deal with pretty much anything. Especially for you.”

Self-loathing slammed like a train.

Eliot stared straight ahead, into the moonlit expanse of endless white. “I don’t deserve it.”

“No one deserves shit,” Quentin said with a matter of fact shrug. “There’s just life and what we want and, like, what we’re willing to give in return.”

Q was always at his most profound when he didn’t realize it. Whenever he tried to talk about magic in lofty, academic terms, he was adorable, but ridiculous. But in moments like these, he could cut to the heart of the world without even taking notice of his own beautiful mind. 

Eliot traced a small circle on the hinge of Quentin’s jaw, shamelessly gazing at him. “There’s my optimist.”

“You know, I actually am an optimist,” Quentin said with a conspiratorial smile, like he was revealing a secret. Oh, _ sweetheart _. “It surprises people since I’m so dark and cynical most of the time.”

“Yeah, baby,” Eliot said as he kissed his forehead. “It‘s very surprising.”

“Okay, again, I’m sensing sarcasm.”

Eliot shushed him with lips against his temple, squeezing him tight. Quentin leaned up and popped what could only be described as a _ defiant kiss _ to his cheek before settling back against him.

The white storm overhead started falling faster, whirring down from the clouding sky. A particularly symmetrical snowflake floated down in a zig-zag dance, landing right between the soft strands of Quentin’s hair. It was intricate and glimmering, the tiniest perfection of nature.

It was time to go.

But again, before Eliot could say as much, Quentin looked back up at him, eyes starry over his cold-flushed cheeks. “So can I at least read the note?”

Eliot frowned, not sure what he meant. “What note?”

Quentin laughed, swiftly holding up a tiny folded piece of paper in the air. Eliot’s stomach dropped, recognizing it from the bouquet that never was, the one he gave to Ted. He had completely forgotten about it. But Q had apparently taken it from his coat without Eliot realizing.

Clever, sneaky, pickpocketing bastard.

“You’re terrible at sleight-of-hand,” Quentin said unnecessarily, sliding the paper between his fingers. He made no move to open it, obviously waiting for permission. 

He would never read something that wasn’t given to him, even when it had a calligraphed “Q”—the capital letter—drawn right on the front. He always gave Eliot the space he needed, to share what he wanted to share, in his own time.

(Because Quentin was respectful that way, _ Margo.) _

Still, even though the note didn’t say anything Eliot hadn’t already said, he felt a wave of embarrassment tighten his throat and dry out his mouth.

“It’s stupid. It was supposed to be this big—it’s stupid,” Eliot said, suddenly interested in his fingernails. He coughed and twisted his ring around his finger. “It wasn’t the right way to go about it.”

A gorgeous hand laid over his and a gentle voice implored, “Please?”

Eliot nodded automatically. He was never going to deny Quentin anything he wanted, ever again.

He kept his eyes on his own hands, taking long and slow breaths. Nerves sparked up from his stomach, setting his chest on fire. His fingers twitched against his frozen wool-covered thighs, the sound of Q carefully unfolding the paper—the scratch, the shuffle, the flap in the wind—mingling with the fuzzy pounding of anxious blood in his ears.

He could feel Quentin read it, the words splotching across his mind’s eye as his breathing picked up its pace. He heard Quentin let out a small gasp, dropping it into his lap. Q was a fast reader and it was short. Eliot hoped it wasn’t disappointing in its brevity.

He knew it by heart. 

It was his heart.

_ My dearest Quentin, _

_ Sunflowers in December. Because you brighten even the darkest day.  
_ _ I’m sorry. I love you. _

_ Yours, El _

Eliot folded his hands and brought them up his lips, eyes closing. He wanted to hide. His gut was screaming at him to run away into the forest and never return. Go full Nell, making a whole new life for himself, amongst the, like, bobcats or moose or whatever.

(He didn’t know what kind of animals lived in these woods. Did he look like David Attenborough?)

Eliot had promised to stop hiding though. To stop running. So he took a deep breath and looked at Quentin. But Quentin wasn’t looking at him, fingers pinching the corners of his eyes.

“That’s, um,” he let his head fall down almost into his lap, voice thick as he swallowed, “that’s really cheesy.”

For a second, Eliot felt something dark slam into his chest. But when Quentin’s red and watery eyes popped back up at him, his hand came to rest on his cheek and he gazed at him like Eliot was precious. Like he was the lucky one.

Eliot quirked his lips up, contrasting the blur of tears in his eyes. “Your boyfriend is, um, on occasion, kind of cheesy.”

With an almost pained and helpless exhale, Quentin surged up to kiss him, a full and extraordinary thing. Eliot returned it, taking him by the neck and giving him his whole heart, all over again.

“Wow,” Q breathed out, thumbs brushing the line of Eliot’s cheekbones, gazing up at him with more love than should have even been possible. “See, shit, uh, I kinda thought this—“

Eliot frowned, running his hands through that gorgeous hair, warming the strands. “You thought what?”

Quentin smiled, a touch impishly. “I thought this was gonna more of, like, you know, a fuck buddies situation?”

… Oh, what a goddamn brat.

Eliot twisted his lips and glared down at him from over his nose. “Uh-huh.”

“Damn, I misread that one,” Quentin said with too big of a smile, too pleased with himself.

“You’re so funny,” Eliot said, squeezing their hands as he nodded, slow and simpering.

“I am funny. Thank you for saying that,” Quentin said, tilting his head up with another smug grin. Eliot kissed it away, as was right. “But yeah, uh, boyfriend is good too. I’m cool with that.”

God, Eliot loved him. So he said, “I love you.”

“And thank you for saying that,” Quentin said softly, before kissing Eliot’s hand again. “I love you too.”

Eliot sighed and reached over to the note, running his finger along the handwritten words. Quentin held onto one edge, like he was afraid Eliot might take it away if he didn’t.

“I was going to tell you that I didn’t expect anything from you, but that you—deserved to know,” Eliot said into the paper. “Even if I had lost my chance, I would have wanted you to know.”

Quentin snorted, half grin forming. “Lost your chance. Sure.”

“I thought I did. Wouldn’t have blamed you. It would have been okay. I mean, _ I _ wouldn’t have been—“ Eliot said with a wet laugh-sob, tears not even blurring his vision in how fast they fell. He slammed his eyes closed, chest tight and cold with what could have been, what he expected to happen. “But what mattered to me was that you knew you were loved. _ So _ loved and—“

Panic choked him silent and his head fell down. He swallowed his tears and sniffed, hands trembling. Shit.

Shitshit_ shit. _

“Hey. It’s okay,” Q whispered, kissing his lips and pulling his jaw toward him. “You never would have lost your chance with me, okay?”

“Not true,” Eliot said with a more genuine, if still sad, laugh. He didn’t open his eyes. “But you’re sweet for saying it.”

“Uh, yeah, no, I’m not kidding,” Quentin said, huffing another loud snort out onto Eliot’s cheek. He could feel the vibrating gust tickle his stubble. “I’m fucking stubborn.”

Eliot smiled against his will as he opened his eyes, drinking in Quentin’s stalwart face. “I’ve noticed that. Here and there.”

“Like, I’m talking unrequited moon eyes for decades, no problem,” Quentin said, blowing air out the side of his mouth, like he was bragging. “My pining capacity knows no bounds. I don’t give a shit.”

Eliot shook his head, grin growing wild. “That’s somehow the most romantic and the most unhealthy thing anyone has ever said to me, sweetheart.”

Quentin widened his eyes and smirked. “Oh, well, if that’s what you’re into, you’re in luck.”

Brand new warmth radiated through his whole body. Eliot had wanted Quentin for such a long time, in innumerable ways. But in that moment—where they were in love with each other and knew it and could laugh in their favorite place and things were different but entirely the same—he had never, _ ever _ wanted him more.

He wanted his trembling skin under his hands, racing pulse under his mouth. He wanted him to gasp his love out, with no space between them. He wanted everything, absolutely everything, with Q.

So Eliot pulled Quentin flush against him, savoring the hitch of his breath and the way his eyes darkened, lips parting at the change in the wind. The charged air around them was sparking, the winter freeze a mere theoretical problem. He kissed up Quentin’s throat, drawing a line with his nose and gripping him by the back of the neck, with intent. 

“I’m into you,” Eliot whispered into his ear, licking and biting at the sensitive skin there. “Very into you.”

“_ Fuck _.” Quentin’s hands palmed up Eliot’s chest and he dipped his head low, pressing soft and slow kisses on his jaw, torturous. “Fuck, El. Let’s—”

“Say the word,” Eliot said before tipping his head back to kiss him as deep as he could. “I’ll give you anything you want, Q. Whatever you want.”

“We need to go back to the Cottage,” Quentin said, crawling into his lap. He unbuttoned Eliot’s coat and wrapped his arms around his chest, kissing every inch of exposed skin he could find. “Can’t stay here."

“Not into ice play?” Eliot smiled against his cheek, voice more composed than he felt, like he wasn’t drowning in delirium.

“That’s more Margo’s speed,” Quentin said, laughing into his mouth, a sweet sensation. “I prefer a warm bed. And, you know, a hot shower. Or, like, rugs on the ground. Maybe a table—”

“Oh my god,” Eliot breathed out, kissing him fiercely. Fuck composure. Fuck anything but fucking Q. “We have to go. Now. Please.”

Quentin swallowed loudly and nodded, standing with Eliot as they kept kissing and kissing, time and space without meaning. But they knew the path well and they walked themselves slowly through the dark and quiet and cold and magical woods, feet sliding and stumbling but always catching onto each other until they reached the edge of the ward, glowing with warmth and promise.

Eliot pulled away first, never more reluctant in his entire life. But Quentin smiled up at him, without a trace of worry. Like he had faith.

Jesus.

Dizzy and astounded and overwhelmed, Eliot gazed down at his beautiful Q in the true moonlight and snow one last time. He kissed him again, quietly thanking whatever made any of this possible, and took his hand.

Then together, they went home.

* * *

The doorknob dug into his back, sharp and screaming with obnoxious magic.

The ward was pissed off that they were pressed against it, trying its best to force them away until they broke the lock. But Eliot was too busy kissing Quentin like everything was crashing down around them to give a shit.

They barely broke apart, neither of them _ breathing _, not beyond short gasps before diving back in without grace. Q shuddered against his body, drawing back to scrape his stubble along his jaw, mouthing at his hot skin with his lips and teeth and all the pent up love and frustration they had both felt since they met each other.

Eliot tightened his grip on Quentin, on his hips, snapping him forward so he could feel how much he wanted him, how _ badly _ he needed this, needed him. He bowed him backwards, keeping one hand firm on his neck and the other splayed across his back, up and under his flannel. He moved his fingers hungrily, feeling every inch of warm skin as he could.

“El,” Quentin breathed out, teeth grazing the most tender part of his earlobe. Eliot groaned, raking his hands down his back and then up into his hair.

He slid his tongue through parted lips and pulled Q close, until every part of them was touching. It still wasn’t enough. So Eliot nudged his leg between his thighs, hard cocks rocking together under a tragic amount of fabric. Fuck.

God, Eliot had never lived before. Eliot had been _ dead _this whole time.

But Quentin gasped away again and shook his head, fingers tangling into his hair, eager and perfect. “El, are you—are you sure you want to do this?”

Eliot laughed, free and giddy, and dragged their down the front of his pants. Quentin lolled his head back with a moan, as Eliot thrust once into his palm and sucked at his neck, untethered.

“Baby, I think we can infer enthusiastic consent here,” Eliot said with a grin, but kissed him harder to prove the point. “But if it makes you feel better then _ yes _, I fucking want to do this.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Quentin said, taking a few shaking breaths and putting his hand in the scant space between their racing hearts. His lips were red and bitten, eyes pitch black as he stared up at him. “Are you sure you want to do this now? We can—we can wait.”

Dread started to pool in his stomach again. Eliot closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. 

“Q,” he managed to get out, pounding heart right under his tongue. He swallowed. “Q, do _ you _ want to wait?”

He had to do this right.

_ He had to _.

Eliot wasn’t going to fuck this up, not again. But he was only human and Quentin was hot and shaking in his arms and so, even if it was wrong, even if it was wrong, he still desperately wanted the answer to be—

“No!” Quentin yelped, eyes wide. “Holy shit, no, yes, I want to do this now.”

Thank fucking fuck.

But then Q blushed, hard, and leaned into rest his forehead on Eliot’s bare chest, half the buttons undone already. “I don’t want to wait, like, at all—but I’m trying to be—I want to make sure you’re okay with—”

“Q, talk to me,” Eliot said into his hair, still panting. “What’s going on?”

“I just—I don’t want to keep you from your party,” Quentin said, glancing up with a devastating look in his eyes. He pressed a soft kiss to Eliot’s lips. “I know it matters to you.”

As they had stumbled up the stairs, eyes glued on each other, Eliot and Quentin could hear their friends’ shining and loud and half mocking wolf whistles in a harmonizing uproar, with Margo in particular screaming the Billy Crystal speech from When Harry Met Sally at the top of her drunk lungs (“_ It’s not because I’m lonely, and it’s not because it’s New Year’s Eve! I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody— _”) And at the center of the grateful chorus, Quentin turned pink and Eliot had to kiss him, and he was sure confetti floated in a gorgeous spiral around them, like playing cards.

But it was true—Eliot did take one short glance at the goings on. 

It showed the whole campus dancing in time to raucous music, while Julia happily poured booze directly into her own mouth from the bottle and Alice twirled with Kady, both of them wearing sequined gold with 2017 goggles on their dopey, smiling faces. The disco ball shimmered the whole space in diamond lights, and champagne flowed from every corner, and Todd was dancing on the table between three first years, high as shit.

It looked like a hell of a party and Eliot was proud to see it take flight, even without its Daddy to care for it. 

A seminal moment.

But now, Quentin’s big wide eyes sought him so genuinely, really trying to make sure he was okay with stepping away, with spending the night with only him instead of his kingdom. And Eliot felt his heart squeeze tight and he quirked his eyebrows together, unsure if Q was real.

“I support you,” Quentin said meaningfully, intense eye contact unwavering. “And all your dreams.”

God, he was so sweet.

—Subtle as neon tie-dye.

But _ so _ fucking sweet.

“Oh, Q,” Eliot said, husky against his temple, heart falling to his feet in worshipful awe. “The only dream I need you to support right now is all the ways I want to get my hands on you.”

“Yup, I can do that,” Quentin said, launching himself back at him without another skip of hesitation. “Happy to take one for the team.”

He was so ridiculous and nerdy and dear. Eliot wanted to do everything to him. He kissed him, deep and slow, arm snaking tight around his waist.

“Mhmm,” he said with a smile, tilting his head to break the kiss. “It’s like a noble quest.”

“Okay,” Quentin said, backing him further against the door and pulling Eliot down to keep kissing him and kissing him. “I’ve been dying to say that you’re definitely using that term wrong.”

Eliot ignored him. “Step one, my hands,” he said, cupping his fingers around the curve of Quentin’s ass. “Step two, my mouth—“

But then Quentin startled, staring down at his feet with a blush. Not in the good way.

His eyes darted around, muscles tense. “Uh, I think that’s my dumb—my whole—uh—”

Ground control to Major Tom.

Eliot stopped and tipped Quentin’s chin up toward him, frowning as gently as possible. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere,” Q said, convincing as hell. “Let’s just—it’s whatever. I’m fine. It’s stupid.”

“Q.”

Silky hair threaded through Eliot’s fingers, twisting around in a meditation. He waited, not pushing more than that. Quentin twitched his lips and pinched his brow.

“I’m embarrassed,” he finally mumbled after another long moment, brushing his own hair back even though it wasn’t falling forward. He didn’t say anything more.

Not a great sign.

Eliot ran his thumb over Quentin’s chin, coaxing. “About?”

“Last time, we—um, I was, uh, like, trying to do a thing?” Quentin screwed his eyes shut tight and his throat bobbed, annoyed at himself. “But it wasn’t—I don’t—”

Eliot rested both hands on his shoulders and massaged them, dipping his concerned face low. “Take a breath.”

Quentin sniffed and opened his eyes, frowning as he rolled them back and forth. He was frustrated and stalling, trying to think of words that wouldn’t embarrass him more than he was already embarrassed. His cheeks burned in splotchy, uneven reds and his lip worried between his teeth.

“Every time we’ve hooked up before, like, not counting that weird time on the couch,” Quentin said quickly, getting the words out at all costs. “I feel like I was—uh, you know.”

Eliot did not know. But he finally got to fulfill one of his most common fantasies, where he kissed the lines on Quentin’s forehead until they smoothed over. It was just as satisfying as he always dreamed.

More satisfying.

Q sighed, the smallest bit more relaxed as he continued talking. “I’ve been trying to be, you know, sexy. But I’m not—I’m not really, you know, _ sexy _.”

Eliot pulled him in closer, to show Quentin how hard he still was. Even now. “Au contraire.”

Quentin stilled with a staccato breath. He closed his eyes and ran his hands down Eliot’s chest, to wrap his fingers around his belt. He tugged him in closer and angled his head up, to just barely press their lips together.

(Not sexy his goddamn ass.)

“I mean that I’m not like—I wanted to be sexy for you and I’m not—“ Quentin murmured into Eliot’s chin, soft lips sparking his skin with every syllable. He apparently didn’t see the irony. “I’m not naturally sexy. But thought you’d want that, so I—”

Eliot gripped his hips tight, dropping his lips to murmur into his skin. “Want you.”

“But, like, do you want the Quentin who, uh, talks about how big your cock is?” Quentin asked, voice going hushed on the word _ cock _. The syllable ran all the way down to Eliot’s with a zing. 

Again, irony.

“I guess I’m worried you think that’s who I am,” Quentin continued, fear laced in his quiet words. “Or, like, that’s who you hope I am. And I’m just—I’m not really, not like—“

Eliot let out a tiny sound of desperation and kissed him. He pressed his lips soft enough not to startle, but firm enough that he would feel it, all the way to his heart.

“Oh, no,” Eliot said, stroking Q’s face as he pulled slowly away. “No, that’s not what I’m hoping for.”

Quentin frowned. “It’s not?”

“No.” Though he swallowed, heart racing. “Not that you talking about my cock isn’t—“

Eliot sucked in a breath through his teeth, eyes closing for a moment and pulse charging to a gallop. Shit.

It was—yeah.

“It’s very hot,” Eliot said, hoarse and lightheaded. The pit of his stomach was spiraling and his knees were a little shaky, so he let out a gasping breath. “I kinda can’t keep talking about it without getting too worked up.”

Quentin dropped his eyes, but he smiled and blushed. In the good way. “El—”

“I am getting to my point,” Eliot said, burying his fingers into Q’s hair. He ran his nose in a line along his jaw, before kissing behind his ear. “Hot as that is, it’s not what I think about when I touch myself, okay?”

Quentin let out a hitched breath. “You—?”

“All the fucking time,” Eliot said, drawing his tongue in a circle inside his ear, languishing in the keening sigh it elicited. “You drive me out of my mind, Q.”

God, how many times had he laid in bed, cock in hand and oil slick, picturing that pretty mouth? How many times had he thrust himself into his own grip, rocking his head back and biting his lip so he didn’t bring the whole Cottage down by shouting _ Quentin _ , silencing words be damned? How many times had he come, white behind the eyes and drunk on Q—on his face, his mouth, his ass, his touch, his scent? How many times had he deliriously, _ crazily _ thought that nothing could be better than that, nothing could be better than even the _ thought _ of Quentin Coldwater trembling under him, taking everything Eliot wanted to give?

Too many times.

As often as he could.

So Eliot whispered all that and more, lips on his ear and hands gripping his arms just shy of too tight. And Quentin fucking _ whimpered _, holy shit, eyes closed and lips parted, breathless and promising, “You—you too—you drive me—”

“All in good time,” Eliot shushed, low and rough. 

He spun Quentin around, so he was the one pressed against the door, smirking at the light gasp. Looming over him and nearly out of his mind, Eliot bit his neck with just enough pressure to leave just the smallest mark.

“I’m trying to tell you that what I think about is not those couple of small moments where you were, I guess, trying to impress me,” he said, rolling his hips and tugging at Quentin’s hair, relishing how his eyes went blacker. “It’s everything else, all the time, in every way. It’s you.”

“El,” Quentin begged—fuck, _ begged _—gripping at his vest. “El, please.”

“I have everything I want, Q,” Eliot said, dropping his lips to the slope of Q’s neck and shoulder, kissing up and along the path. He was a wanderer, an adventurer, a conquerer. “I have never been happier, or more terrified, or more grateful, or _ more fucking turned on _ in my entire life.”

He surged down, kissing him hungrily and snaking his hands under his shirt, dancing his fingers along the curve of his spine. Quentin whined into his mouth and pulled himself up by the vest. He bit his lip and messed up his curls, desperate and urgent.

“What else do you think about?” Q broke the kiss to gaze up at him, eyes hooded and hand working its way down to Eliot’s straining cock. “When you—?”

“Do you remember about a week before Ibiza?” Eliot swallowed and hissed as Quentin gripped him through his trousers, sending a flush of heat across his skin and his heart on overdrive. “When I threw a—a Tuesday picnic?”

Bolder than he ever gave himself credit for, Q slowly started moving his hand, up and down. Up and down. He found an easy rhythm in Eliot’s silk briefs and Eliot could already feel his stomach clench, pleasure rushing to action. He dipped his head down to his chin, whispering the name _ Quentin _, and sliding in closer, hands back in his hair. He was already on fire, on the brink.

Except—

Fuck, they were in the hallway.

He raised his eyebrows meaningfully and Quentin nodded, not moving his eyes from his, opening the wardbreaker. 

They stumbled in through the door and landed on the bed, a tangle of limbs and lips. Moving quickly and breathing into each other, they stripped each other of their clothes, until they were both naked and hard and kissing on the bed, quiet and dedicated, with Quentin’s compact little body nestled on top of his.

“I remember,” Quentin said, biting a line along his collarbone, running his hands through his chest hair. “The picnic, before Ibiza. I remember.”

“Right,” Eliot said, not able to take his eyes off the glory of naked Quentin. He smoothed his hand between his shoulder blades, down the knobs of his spine, around his ass, back again. He could do that. This was his. Quentin was his. To keep, to cherish.

Eliot pulled him close, heartbeat to heartbeat. He brushed his lips against his rough stubble, slid their legs into an endless tangle. Eliot could have stayed there forever. But Quentin had other plans.

With a smile Eliot could feel, he kissed down his chest to his stomach, nipping at the soft skin and gripping the divots of his hipbones with his thumbs. Eliot watched the honey-brown crown of his head go lower, could feel the soft tickle of his strands against his thigh. Like in a dream, out of control, he reached down to bury his fingers into his soft hair, heart seizing as Quentin kissed every inch of his skin with reverence, with focus.

Then Q popped his eyes up deviously as he settled between his legs, taking Eliot fully in his perfect hand, teasing mouth hovering right above. Eliot’s heart and breath stuttered at once, his hips jerking involuntarily. Shit. _ Shit. _

“What about it?” Quentin asked him, sincere and husky voiced. He stroked Eliot slowly, painstakingly. “What about the picnic?”

He couldn’t fucking remember.

God, Eliot wanted to let his head fall back, to _ surrender _, but he kept himself upright, levered on his elbows. He focused on the story, determined to see it through, determined not to lose his composure. Not yet.

Eliot let out a slow breath through rounded lips. “You were wearing your dumb striped tie—”

“It’s not dumb,” Quentin said, big eyes wide as his thumb slid over the head of Eliot’s wet cock. Eliot took a deep breath, biting his lip to hold back a moan. If he let it out, he was done for.

“It’s so dumb,” he said with a gasping laugh instead. He met Quentin’s eyes, smoldering. “I love it.”

“Of course you love it,” Quentin said, voice catching and chest lifting too fast as he stroked him and stroked him. “It’s a nice pattern.”

“Anyway, you were wearing your dumb striped tie and you were working on—um, on your weather—your weather spells,” Eliot breathed out, lifting his hips off the bed to carefully, deliberately push himself into that gorgeous hand. Couldn’t help it. “But you made a gust of wind too strong in the wrong direction and it blew the tie up into your face and it just kept—”

He trailed off, eyes fluttering and wobbly mouth smiling, eyebrows lifting with his spirits. Oh, _ fuck. _

“Yeah, I remember that too,” Quentin murmured. Then, without warning, he dipped down and took Eliot in his mouth, all at once, almost down to the root. And the world—the whole fucking world—

It was gone.

“_Fuck _ , Q,” Eliot breathed a shout, thighs trembling around a sharp jawline. “Fuck, oh my god.”

Eliot could feel all of his teeth, but the world had exploded into stardust. And Quentin kept taking him back in, working his tongue up the head of his cock and then sliding back down, a slow murder of the senses. The _ sight _ of him, reverent and so gentle, with tight lips wrapped around him, was almost too much to bear. He wasn’t sure how he could breathe, let alone speak, let alone think.

But Eliot could see it then, the scene, in his mind’s eye. That day, the way Q’s mouth had opened with laughter, the ways his hands gripped tight into the picnic quilt, twisting the fabric, the way his hair splayed everywhere, the slivers of bare skin, the spark in his eyes—

Quentin asked him a question.

Eliot was going to give him a fucking answer. 

“Your tie kept whipping back and forth at your lips and nose and forehead,” Eliot said, gently digging his fingers into the soft hair atop Quentin’s bobbing head. His voice was pitching, on the verge of hysteria. Fuckfuck_ fuck _. “And you fell backwards, laughing your ass off. But then you kept—you kept getting pushed down, over and over again.”

Quentin slowly pulled his lips up at that, taking away everything good in the world as he frowned, lips red and wet and fucking _ Christ _. “How is this relevant?”

Eliot’s chest heaved up and down, in the rhythm Quentin had set.

“Q, when you were lying there and giggling like a goddamn loon, I wanted to hold you down and fuck you so badly that I had to excuse myself,” Eliot said, spitting the words out and pulling Quentin up to his lips. He kissed him, thrusting up into him and sliding their cocks together, in a desperate search for friction. “I think I—I made up some shit about canapés.”

“I remember,” Q said, straddling him and kissing a bite at his throat. “Shit, I _ remember _ that. Didn’t want you to leave. Wanted to keep looking at you.”

“You’re going to fucking kill me,” Eliot growled, gripping his hand tight into Quentin’s hair and pulling. He was unfettered, on fire, kissing and nipping and biting and _ moaning. _They made the prettiest sounds together.

Fuck. Eliot was losing his breath and his mind. His head was spinning.

“I wanted to kiss you until you couldn’t see straight,” Eliot said, doing just that. He ran his hands down Quentin’s side, grabbing his _ perfect _tight little ass to pull them together. “I wanted feel you, all of you, until the world fell away.”

“Oh my god, El,” Quentin breathed, falling apart, finally losing all control. And Eliot raked his eyes down the golden lines of Quentin’s body, strong and wiry, hair glinting in the light. His heart swelled and his hands trembled.

“You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen,” Eliot promised into his ear, whispering, worshipping. “You’re so beautiful, Q.”

He was. He was a marvel. There could be no one better for him. Eliot was never going to get over this, never get over the luck he found when he met Quentin Coldwater. Never get over how breathtaking he was. By how he ripped Eliot apart at the seams and made him whole again, all at once.

Quentin shook his head, their noses nuzzling as he did. “I’m not—"

“You are. Do you have any idea how much I look at _ you _? I am—“ Eliot lost his words and tried to find them again on Quentin’s lips. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“God, Eliot,” Quentin pulled him in, kissing him with both his hands on his face. And Eliot could still taste himself on his mouth, sharp and heady. He made a sound—one of them, both of them—like a sob, their kissing growing messy and dirty and too deep, like they were trying to crawl into each other.

“I want you almost as much as I love you,” Eliot somehow managed to get out, hands and mouth frantic along Quentin’s perfect body. “Please let me—“

“Yes,” Quentin said, nodding and kissing and nodding and kissing. “Now.”

“How do you—?” Eliot hitched one of Quentin’s legs across his hip, grinding their cocks together. “What do you want, Q?”

“I want you,” Quentin said, rolling Eliot on top of him, that surprising strength, letting him lay between his open legs. His slick cock was trapped between their stomachs as he grabbed Eliot by the neck and pulled him down into a kiss. “Want—want you inside me, El. Can we—?”

_ Fuck. _

Bracing his arms around Quentin’s beautiful face, Eliot brought their forehead together and took a moment to breathe, a moment to get his urgency in check. He traced his thumb along the shell of his ear, sticky-outty and gorgeous.

“Yes,” he whispered into their shared breath. “Yes. We can—yes.”

Quentin blinked up at him, pulling him out to sea with his eyes. “My love,” he said quietly, cupping his jaw, filled with wonder.

And Eliot—

God, Eliot softly kissed his cheek, his lips. He kissed his nose and eyelids. He kissed a line of gentle kisses across his brow. He kissed his lips, his neck, and he palmed his hands down his sides, slow and firm. 

He murmured a spell and started to work him open, slowly and gently, leaving no room for haste. Eliot had waited so long for this. He wasn’t going to rush it, not for anything.

“Sweetheart,” Eliot breathed into his skin, as his fingers slid into him and they both trembled. “Quentin.”

They laid there together, kissing and gasping and exploring for what felt like hours. The room was hushed, wordless and unhurried. They showed each other their tenderness, their adoration, with every movement. 

Eliot was memorizing him, pulling every new detail into his heart. He learned what made Quentin pant and what made him squirm, what made his eyes fly open in a flash of pleasure, of awe. He studied every twitch, every gasp, every sigh, every way his voice vibrated with want when Eliot crooked his finger just so.

The air was heavy, cloaked in magic they must have been radiating. Everything smelled like Quentin and _ Roi du Soir _and the arrival of spring in the cold winter chill. His skin was on fire, sweet fire, his long body soaking in Quentin like a balm.

“El.” Quentin had his back arched and his voice panted desperately. “Eliot, _ please _.”

Under any other circumstance, Eliot would have snapped a quick and sultry, _ Well, since you asked so nicely. _ But tonight, around the man of his dreams, already slick with sweat and entwined in trembling arms, he could barely speak at all.

But Quentin whimpered under him again, _ angling _ into him, debauched and intentional and urgent as sin. And shit, there were a thousand things Eliot would have said to _ that _. A thousand witticisms he would have trumpeted, loud and clear and biting, once upon a time.

Maybe one day, it would come back. Maybe the next day (_ the next day _ ), it would be playful and fun and hot, to tease Q, to call him a _ bratty fucking bottom _ , to wax poetic about his _ needy cocksucking. _

Because those things were true too. They were part of them too. They were part of Eliot, forever.

For now though, there was only one thing Eliot wanted to say. Only one thing he could say. It still felt like weakness. But he was trying so hard to be brave, like his Quentin. 

So he said—

“I love you.” Barely a whisper, before Eliot kissed him, soft and slow. He sighed, closing his eyes. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed out, eyes closed and hair fanned around his face, fucking delectable. “Yeah—uh-huh, for sure, that’s me too.”

Eliot giggled at that—too giddy to chuckle and too breathless to laugh. But then he pressed into Quentin, sliding between his legs. He brushed a soft kiss to Q’s lips, more to gently coax his attention than anything. His free hand came up to cup his cheek, thumbing at the delicate skin along his cheekbone.

“Q,” Eliot said softly. “Q—can I?”

“_ Please _,” Quentin begged again, frayed at every edge and canting into him and just—like, the fucking picture of impatience. “I’ve waited so long.”

Eliot didn’t know for sure if he was referring to the length of his (very) thorough foreplay or the 467 days they had known each other, but his heart had its suspicions. So he nodded, lightheaded and on the verge of something fucking great. 

With a quick call of a condom from his discarded vest pocket, Eliot kissed Quentin, messy and gentle and full of everything he felt. He moved in slowly at first, agonizingly slowly, _ fever inducing _ slowly. But he had to be sure, be sure that it was good for him. Quentin let out a moaning hum, reaching up to grab at Eliot’s arms, squeezing them tight.

“Okay, Q?” Eliot managed to get out, wars and parades bursting in his chest. He loved him. He loved him so much Eliot loved him he felt incredible he was all around him Eliot couldn’t breathe oh fuck oh god—

“Yeah,” Quentin laughed out, giddy too. He slid his hands up and down Eliot’s arms, relishing the feel of him. “Yeah, move, El. Please.”

“You feel so good,” Eliot breathed, somehow, not sure what oxygen was. “You feel so fucking good, Q.”

The heat of him was overpowering. He was soft and tight and wet around him as he kept sliding in deeper, making sure Quentin could take it, making sure it was good for Quentin. Nothing was ever going to hurt again. Not if he could help it. Never again.

Meanwhile, Q startled with pleasure. He was breathy, joyful, unlike Eliot had ever seen before. Lifting his hips to beckon him in, he was pliant and so, so giving. They pulled their bodies flush together, so they were as close as they could possibly be, until finally—

Eliot was inside him.

“_ Quentin _,” he moaned, breath gone and arms shaking. “Oh, Quentin. Fuck.”

“Tell me—tell me again,” Q begged as he gasped into the side of his face, sweet and tight and _ fucking hell _. “Tell me how you feel.”

“Always wanted you,” Eliot gasped out, hips jerking in tiny movements as he swallowed and tangled his fingers in soft hair. “Always felt this, Q. Oh _ god _, I love you.”

Quentin shivered beneath him and shifted, sending a coursing wave of sparks and rolling pleasure down Eliot’s spine. He groaned, loud and hot in Quentin’s ear, and started moving, rocking gently. He wanted to remember every second of this, every breath. The tight grip of Quentin around him, the sounds he made, the way they moved together, the way they _ felt _together. 

It was so much better than he dreamed.

It went on and on, lasting past what should have been possible, for how badly they wanted it. For how much they had denied themselves, for too long. Quentin wrapped his legs around him, moaning in his ear, calling him precious things he never thought he’d hear. _ Never _ thought he’d hear from a man he loved. He sobbed and laughed into the crook of Q’s neck, murmuring and promising in the dark, in the light.

Eliot kissed him, thrusting and shaking, as they both increased their speed, fueled by their desperation. Eliot said his name, over and over again, into his skin, only half believing it was real. He had experienced so much in his life, seen so much, experienced the heights of pleasure and kink and lust. But none of it compared to making love to Quentin, steady and wild, eyes not parting as they both felt their pleasure crest. None of it came close to the revelation of their embrace, the way they moved together.

He cupped Quentin’s face, pulling him closer. Legs tightened around him, gasping under him, bringing him in so deep he could barely stand it. Their foreheads pressed together and Quentin dug his fingers into his back, whispering his name like a prayer. Eliot felt his breath strangle, his love crawl up through his chest and nearly take him under.

Frantically, desperately, Eliot needed him to know.

“Love you so much,” he whispered into his throat, every nerve ending exposed, every part of him ready for the taking. “Love you, Q. I love you.”

Eliot pulled them tighter, cupping his beautiful face and sharing breath. He pressed into him as fiercely as he could, trying to make them one. His Quentin. His Quentin. His Quentin. And Eliot was his, body and soul.

Quentin rolled his hips and moaned out, “_ El, _ I’m close. I’m gonna—”

“Come for me.” Eliot thrust harder, once, twice, sliding his tongue around his mouth. He took him in hand and stroked, messy and clumsy. But _ oh _ , the pained, delicious groan from Quentin’s throat as he did. Jesus. _ Fuck. _ “You’re so good. Come for me, please.”

And Q came for him, so sweetly.

He shouted and stilled under him, spilling warm between their stomachs. The sticky feel of his shuddering body and the knowledge that Eliot did that—that _ Eliot _ made him come—was enough to tip him over the edge. His orgasm roared, a torrent of fire and soul.

Staring into Quentin’s eyes, Eliot froze, hips stuttering to a stop, as it crashed down in waves, coming and coming inside Quentin, a release of so much, too much. He muffled his moans against his shoulder, mouth softening as everything went gentle and watercolored around him, then from a great distance as he floated to the stars, like a champagne bubble.

When Eliot returned fully back to earth, he collapsed on Quentin’s chest and buried his face between his neck and shoulder, body humming and shivering in the low glow of the beautiful world.

Quentin kissed his hair and his forehead, down his cheek, over to his ear. He whispered sweet nothings, babbles about how gorgeous Eliot was, how lucky Quentin felt, how good they were, _ so fucking good, baby _. Tangled and panting, Eliot rolled to his side and pulled Quentin with him, entwined together and kissing without end.

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot finally spoke, lingering against his lips. “Fuck, that was—”

“Intense,” Quentin said with a small laugh, winding his arms around Eliot’s neck and shoulders to kiss him deeper. “Yeah. Oh my god. I’ve never—”

“Me neither,” Eliot said quickly, nosing at his jaw. He didn’t know how Quentin was going to finish the sentence. But _ him neither _. “God, Quentin.”

“Feel like jelly,” Q laughed, trying to flop on his back. “Like, uh, incredibly fucked out jelly.”

Eliot snorted at his poetic turn of phrase, but didn’t let him go. He brought him in tighter, thumb stroking his cheek as they rested their foreheads together, eyes closed. For a few silent moments, they clung to each other, chests thumping together and breaths slowing together.

“We should, uh, clean up though before we—” Quentin sighed reluctantly, stretching a lazy arm out toward his nightstand. “I have some, uh, tissues—”

Smiling gently, Eliot murmured the cleanup spell, weirdly charmed that Quentin didn’t know it. As the magic zipped away the mess, Q predictably brightened, eyes quirking with curiosity.

“I’ll show you later,” Eliot promised, gathering him up on top of him and wrapping the navy blue comforter around them for good measure. It was soft, like the shirts Quentin wore.

Eliot placed his hand between their hearts, the fast_ ker-thump, ker-thump _ gentling as they breathed. In turn. Quentin wrapped his hands into his hair, playing with the curls and moving his eyes across Eliot’s face like he was memorizing, categorizing.

“I love you,” Q said simply, lips in a tiny smile. His bright eyes sparkled and he kissed him lightly, like a promise. Eliot murmured the words back into his skin, before kissing the same space, like a promise. This was his. _ Quentin _ was his. It was real.

He got to have this.

Not for the first time that night, Eliot was overwhelmed. He let out a small laugh, before cupping Quentin’s face again and kissing him firmer, smiling into his mouth. Then he tucked his head under his chin, wrapping his arms in a frame around his body. They laid together in the ward quiet room, on Q’s cozy bed, words unnecessary.

But then Quentin shifted, letting out one of his telltale little snorts of annoyance.

“Okay?” Eliot said softly, running a hand along his soft hair. Quentin swallowed and nodded, sighing maybe a touch mournfully.

“Nothing,” Quentin said, before grumbling into his chest hair, pushing his nose up and down the line of Eliot’s breastbone. “It’s—it’s stupid.”

“Hey, none of that,” Eliot said seriously, sliding his fingers under his jaw and tilting it upward. But when Quentin met his eyes, they were playful and twinkly.

“No,” he said with a grin. “It’s actually stupid.”

“Try me,” Eliot said, running a single finger down the length of his face. But Q chuckled, humming out another sigh and kissing the underside of Eliot’s jaw once, twice. Then he pulled away and locked eyes with him, chin set with ferocity and defiance.

“Taylor Swift is not milquetoast.”

Eliot blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Um, you know, uh, a couple of weeks ago,” Quentin said, mouth twitching and brow going dark. But then he recovered, smirking. “You said that Taylor Swift is milquetoast. And I’m saying five Platinum records, ten Grammy’s, and over 90 million followers on Instagram are a direct counter to your snobby ass.”

Eliot broke out into a wild grin, heart expanding in the a flash. This was_ it _ for him.

“Aw, yeah, no, she is,” Eliot said cheerfully, popping a quick kiss on his lips. “She’s soggy wheat dipped in skim.”

Quentin twitched his eyes into slits. “You know that’s not how it’s spelled, right?”

He did not. “It’s called a play on words, pup.”

Q widened his eyes and stared deep into his soul, cheeks growing red. “People only hate Taylor Swift because she is a _young_ _woman_ who is _unashamed_ to sing about _heartache_ and _love_, and—“

“And because she’s bland and uninspiring and corporate,” Eliot said, smile growing too quickly across his face. The spark of annoyed fire in those big brown eyes was worth every hardship he had ever gone through.

“Oh, so she’s supposed to apologize for her success? To you?” Quentin demanded, dead serious and building an impressive man of straw. “She doesn’t owe you shit.”

Eliot shimmied his shoulders and held his darting tongue between his teeth. “Literally all her songs sound the same.”

“Bullshit. No, fuck you, that’s—that’s bullshit,” Q sat up, bringing his knees toward his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “Have you ever listened to _ 1989 _ from the first track to the last?”

“No, baby,” Eliot said with a simpering pout, gazing up at Quentin with one arm cocked under his head. “I’m not delving into the T-Swift catalogue in my spare time.”

“Well, you mock,” Quentin said, eyebrows ticking up on the consonant. He was a dream. “But it’s important to listen to consecutively with an ear for the orchestral detail if you want to understand her as an artist.”

Eliot bit his smiling lip. “What the fuck?”

“I interpret _ 1989 _as a concept album, with a narrative through line, and it’s—“

His heart was so full, it was going to burst. He was the luckiest goddamn man on the planet. Eliot levered himself up on his palms and could feel the tenderness streaming out from his eyes as he soaked in his perfect, perfect Q.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he said, gasping a laugh. He leaned in and brushed their noses together, lips just sparking together. “Look at you.”

“Stop that,” Quentin said, with a tremor of a giggle under his words. He squirmed away and Eliot tugged him in, chests pressed together.

Eliot bit at his jawline with a grin, wrapping hands into his hair. “Stop what?”

“That,” Q said, playing at stern. His smile gave him right away though. “I’m trying to make a point.”

“Mmm,” Eliot nodded, kissing his neck and sliding his fingers down his bare skin. “Which is?”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek and pulled away just enough to catch their eyes together, blinking himself into his most earnest and solemn face.

“Taylor Swift,” Q said quietly, fervently, “is the most important singer-songwriter of our generation.”

Eliot rolled on top of him and pinned him to the bed, looming down.

“Okay, I was teasing you,” Eliot said, voice low, the cascade of his messy curls falling right onto Q’s scrunched nose, “but that’s actually bullshit and now we’re gonna fight.”

They were not going to fight. Quentin could do no wrong, even when he was terribly, _ terribly _wrong. Eliot kissed him to make sure he knew that. Then kissed him again because he could.

Quentin rolled Eliot’s lower lip between his teeth and smirked. “I will remind you I said _ most important _ and not _ best.” _

“No, I heard you.”

“And I define _ Of our generation _,” Q clarified, gripping Eliot’s ass, a hot curve of fingers, “as someone who is near contemporary in age to us.”

Yes, this would work.

Eliot scraped his teeth along the line of Quentin’s stubble, limbs tangled as their movements became heated again. Because this was what they had been doing the whole time, right? Getting under each other’s skin, poking at sharp and tender and _ good _ hot spots, to try to feel _ this _ when they thought they couldn’t. When they thought they never would.

“Got it,” Eliot growled, hands holding down wrists. Half hard, already, again, he pressed a kiss to the center of Quentin’s chest. “Still about to rip you to shreds.”

Legs wrapped around his hips and soft lips curled at his ear. “Come at me, Waugh.”

Anyway, they didn’t talk about Taylor Swift.

This time, it was less the prayerful, quiet revelation and more the scorching hot tangle of writhing and oversensitive limbs. Eliot stretched his fingers and moved his lips, over every inch of skin he could find. Quentin rocked into him, like he was fucking desperate for it, _ clinging _ to him like he might fly away if he didn’t.

Eliot wanted to reassure him with words, the words that still sat so painfully in his solar plexus like a garbled knot. But he couldn’t, not then. So Eliot let his body do the talking, in every way. He kissed down his body, nuzzling the soft skin of his belly, biting at the line of his hips and back up again. He did so without intent, exploration for the sake of it.

“On second thought, you know,” Quentin said breathily, smiling as Eliot lavished his tongue around his nipple, “you, ah, you raise a good point. Very compelling.”

Eliot sucked tiny marks down his rib cage, scratching his fingers through the soft hair on his chest. “I can certainly _ raise _ a—“

“God, come on,” Quentin groaned, lightly bopping him on top of the head. “You’re better than that.”

Eliot grinned up at him, wicked and bright. “Am I?”

He definitely wasn’t.

But Quentin let out a small breath, catching in his throat. He reached his hand down to stroke his thumb along Eliot’s cheek, eyes soft. He looked at Eliot like he was better than he knew, maybe even the best thing. And everything Eliot felt rushed to his heart, pinpricks of the universe in his ventricles. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. He would probably have to get used to that alien sensation, the way Q rendered him speechless, out of awe rather than fear.

—Well, no, okay, the fear was still there. 

Probably would always be. It really was okay though. He had Q to help him through it, to help him mend. It was his magic, in every way.

Closing his eyes, Eliot dropped his forehead to the soft round of Q’s belly, to let the moment rest. The light between them was overwhelming. It was beautiful.

A hand tapped his though, a gentle and beseeching touch. When he looked up, Quentin had cocked his head, staring at the clock on the wall. He smiled and undid his silencing ward, letting the sounds of the party below swell into their rarefied space.

“Listen,” Quentin said, angling his head toward the door, vibrating with the whoops and hollers of the downstairs crowd, drunkenly and joyously counting down from thirty, then twenty, then ten.

_ Nine… Eight… Seven… _

“Good timing, huh?” Q smiled brightly and Eliot crawled toward him, hands on his face and eyes on his lips.

“Yeah,” he breathed, full of meaning and hope. “Yeah, baby.”

_ Three… Two… One… _

Quentin closed the gap between them, the cacophony of noisemakers and whistles and cheers muffled under the thrilling rush of their heartbeats. Their lips touched gently, fingertips grazing lazily over naked skin like they had time. Because they had time.

“Happy New Year, El,” Quentin murmured when he broke away for air. His long lashes fluttered against his cheek. “I love you.”

_ I’m going to love you forever, _ Eliot thought fiercely, maybe absurdly, as he dragged Q toward him for a messy, shattering kiss. He held Quentin against him, tight and wrapped in his arms, and he kissed the top of his head over and over again.

_ There’s no world where I don’t love you. _

Indiana winters were cold and harsh. 

The flat land was like stone, frozen too far into the ground to yield life. The barren earth was soaked in booze and blood, pooling where it couldn’t absorb. Ice cracked like knives, splintering anything that could have been a salvation, forever lost to the makeshift tundra.

But sometimes, on the bleakest, darkest, coldest nights, the stars had been brighter than his young heart, promising something more, something greater. Something bigger than he could fathom, waiting for him, when the time came. The constellations moved dusty in the moonlight and whispered sweet words to him, singing a lullaby of better days just out of reach.

It was only now that he recognized the voice, the starlight in his soul.

It was Quentin.

It was Margo.

It was Alice, and it was even Julia, and it was Sardi’s, and it was St. Mark’s Place. It was a Welters announcement, and it was music with no source, and it was laughter at a picnic. It was Evelyn Waugh, and it was Christopher Plover, and it was waves on a beach, and it was Idri’s booming laugh, and it was New York City, and it was Encanto, and it was beauty and light, and it was the fizz-pop of champagne, and it was _ heartache _—necessary heartache. It was Henry goddamn Fogg, and it was the depths of despair, and it was incantations and enchantments, and it was the bright spark of hope, and it was musical spells, and it was birds chirping and leaves rustling, and it was the outside of wards, and it was everything, gorgeous everything.

But most of all—

“I love you too, Q,” Eliot said, strong and clear. He smiled, a resonant calm overflowing from his heart. “I love you.”

The voice was Eliot.

* * *

epilogue to follow.

  
  



	12. Epilogue: Loveliness Itself

  
  


**New York City & Brakebills University, April 2017**

*****

**(An Epilogue, Three and a Half Months After Our Fabulous Story, Entitled: ** **Mendings, Major and Minor)**

* * *

The room was upside down.

Eliot hung like a bat, long legs thrown up over the back of the velvet couch. His head rested in the space between the cushion and an elaborate kilim rug. Balanced delicately, he cast his eyes across the sweeping high ceiling and the imposing windows, standing in for walls throughout the entirety of the open space.

Through the warded glass, he could see the overcast sky below and miniatures of the city above. Expanses of green and faraway bridges, the edge of the manmade lake, all toylike in the distance. The tiny people below walked under black dots, uniform umbrellas in a hurry. Closer by, mist hung at the windows, cool and moving swift, without reaching the lofty succession to the atmosphere. Drips of water formed downward, obscuring the view into an oil painting.

_ April showers bring May flowers, _his school teachers used to ominously intone.

—It was a weird month.

Eliot stretched his arms down and gripped the floor with his fingers, savoring the feel of solid ground. April had always been a weird month, with cold days and warm days, a strange and uncertain pall over the country. He had always hated it.

But especially now.

With a blink back to earth, a clicking shutter on a camera, he swallowed roughly and focused on what was in front of him, on physical sensation. 

He focused on the steady stream of magic through the cavernous space. He focused on the crisp scent, the artificial clean lemon that signaled _ Not a home, not yet _in all its perfect sterility. He focused on the colors, all whites and grays and chrome—drab and unwelcoming. That kind of stark minimalism was for serial killers and suburbanites. He focused on the vertical lines, the parallel lines, the way the mouldings and the beams intersected. He focused on whether it felt anything like comfort and beauty, the two qualities he cared about most. He focused on if he could feel life, beyond the dull magic, in a space he could call his own. 

And thus far, his conclusion was a solid—

_Meh_.

Eliot let out a slow stream of air between rounded lips, tamping down his frustration—with the space, with himself, who could say. It was absurd either way. He closed his eyes, tension knotting from between his shoulder blades and growing out like twisted vines toward his chest, threatening to burst.

He took another long breath.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Inhale—

The space next to him dipped with a warm weight. Silky hair cascaded down in his periphery, punctuated with a wry smile on gentle lips. And all of Eliot’s tension unspooled at once.

Quentin’s eyes were soft as he set a serious brow and mouth, matching Eliot’s gaze about the large room. “So what are we looking at here?”

“The lines of the architecture,” Eliot said, rolling his head to look at his constant sunflower, a much more compelling sight. “To see if they flow from every perspective.”

“Why does it matter?” Quentin snorted, offering but an incredulous sidelong brow furrow. “How often do you plan on being all turned around like this?”

Oh, _ sweetheart. _

At Eliot’s slow grin, Q turned deliciously pink and blew air out the side of his mouth. “Well, yeah, but then, like, if you’re noticing _ the lines of the architecture,_ I’m not doing my job.”

His eyes sparkled.

“Oh? What job is that?” Eliot gave into the soft space under the hinge of Q’s jaw, nosing and nipping, with only a hand on the floor (and the wings of love) keeping him balanced. “Be specific.”

Quentin closed his eyes, humming into the sensation. That is, until he jolted, reaching his hand down to the ground with his eyes wide.

“Shit,” Q said, sliding and twisting, a chuckling kind of panic in his voice. “Shit, I’m falling.”

Sure enough, his feet were scrabbling off the edge of the couch and his head was slowly sinking down toward the floor. With a loud laugh, Eliot righted himself up on the couch and wrapped his hands around Quentin’s biceps, easily tugging him up and into his own chest. Quentin settled into him, blowing his wild hair out of his eyes and tilting his face up for a kiss. 

Eliot obliged, ever a hardship. Then he sighed and smiled into Q’s lips. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Quentin said, husky voiced in a way that went straight to the dick. 

Twitching his head up, almost like it was involuntary, Q offered another one of those tiny kisses that somehow lit Eliot up from the inside as much as their most intense foreplay. So Eliot kissed him harder, hands cupping his stubbled face, that perfect blend of soft and sharp to set his nerves ablaze.

They pulled away and Eliot let out an almost embarrassing stutter of breath. Q curled into him with a grin, resting his head in the crook of his neck, like he was made for it. Eliot lazily trailed his fingers up and down his arm as they took in the room, ready to get back to the subject at hand.

But Quentin matched his rhythm—trailing _ his _ fingers along Eliot’s inner thigh and tilting his perfect mouth into his pulse point. And Eliot whited out behind the eyes, just a little. All he could feel were his too-gentle fingers and the brush of lips up his neck. All other sensation fuzzed out, meaningless. 

But _ then_, Quentin rolled Eliot’s earlobe between his teeth and the whole world crashed back into sharp focus, all vibrant colors and heat.

Q whispered into his skin, breathless and heady, “You know, a live demo with some, uh, hands-on instruction might be our best bet. To account for the varying learning styles in the room.”

—Eliot had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

He gazed down at Quentin and smoothed the stray hairs off his brow, thinking back to what they said before nearly toppling off the couch. Which—right, _ describe the job,_ as corny and flippant a come-on as there was. And naturally, Quentin had turned into an involved academic metaphor-slash-roleplay. 

Jesus.

For neither the first nor last time, Eliot marveled at how he actually got to _ have this_. With a wide smile and fond as all hell, he laughed and pulled Q in by his belt.

“I appreciate the care you put into your curriculum,” Eliot said, biting at his lower lip with a spark of teeth. “Professor Coldwater.”

“Fuck,” Quentin moaned, surging up and slipping his hand around the knot of Eliot’s tie.“Add that to the list.”

That was actually a surprise. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Q breathed against his lips. “Like, you could be my student.”

The surprise turned to heat. “... Yeah?”

“But, like, one who’s older or maybe it’s more like you’re auditing?” Quentin kept kissing him, whispering growing fervent. “And also I’m, like, an assistant adjunct, which could maybe help with the weird power differential—“

Eliot gentled him, smiling into his temple. “Q.”

“But one day, near the end of term, you wear that scarf I like,” Q said, mouthing down his throat. Eliot gripped his hip, dick twitching hard. Quentin was talking about the velvet scarf, the one they brought out every so often. “So I ask you to stay after class––”`

God, fuck. “Mmm, _ yeah _?”

“And I’m, like—” Quentin pulled away, giant and soft and earnest eyes unfairly meeting his, never giving him a single chance. “Please give me a good evaluation, I’m finally up for a permanent position, I’ll do anything.”

Eliot adored him, body and soul.

“Oh, no.” He crawled on top of Q, pressing him down into the couch. “Now _ I _ have too much power.”

“It’s okay because it’s a subversion,” Quentin said with a Boy Scout head nod and Eliot sunk down into him, capturing his lips and thanking all his lucky fucking stars. Q wasn’t quite done though, breaking away and burying his hands in Eliot’s hair to gaze up at him, endless and magnificent. 

“But then you would be like, well, last lecture, you made a moralistic argument about the Canterbury Tales which I can’t get behind,” Q murmured, running his thumb against the grain of Eliot’s stubble. “And then I would say well, I think ‘moralistic’ is a wrongheaded interpretation but I still ––

Eliot barked out a laugh, airy and joyful, right into his chest. “_ Q_.”

Quentin popped his eyebrows up and finished his thought with a cheerful grin. “But I still should suck your dick.”

“Teacher knows best,” Eliot murmured, pinning him in his place with a roll of his hips. And Quentin was right there with him—god, like he always was—and he pulled Eliot down, down until there was no closer they could get, until they were once again an artless, _ stunning _ tangle of limbs and lips and hands and ragged breaths. Fuck, Eliot was about to rip their fucking _ clothes off_, telekinetically or otherwise, when—

—he remembered where he precisely was.

He forced himself back with a gasp, staring down at that dangerous kiss-swollen smile, truly hating himself for what he was about to do. But, like, in the fun way. 

(You know, the _ healthy _kind of self-hatred, borne from a more potent mix of want and security than he ever thought he’d see in his whole life. It was a sweet loathing, a gentle inner screaming without fear. 

It was nice.)

“Okay, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but—“ Eliot sighed, cupping his hand under the curve of Quentin’s pert ass, letting his forehead rest on that damn chin. “We probably shouldn’t fuck on the couch of my new company’s model apartment.”

Q levered himself up on his elbows and looked both ways, frowning. “I mean, like, it’s warded, right?”

“_Quentin,” _Eliot laughed, shocked and delighted. 

He was such a saucy minx. 

Honestly, obviously, Eliot almost gave in at the unabashed challenge gleaning in his boyfriend’s eyes. But instead, he sat up and patted his knee, sighing mournfully.

“If it wasn’t the property of my contingent-upon-graduation-and-no-bullshit new job, we’d sully the fuck out of this place,” he said, smoothing out his pants and vest, to give his hands something to do other than Q. “In the meantime, I should try to be responsible, every now and then.”

Quentin sighed, exaggerated and smiling. “Sometimes it’s like, I don’t even know who I’m dating.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Eliot said with a quick peck to his lips, pulling him up to stand. But Quentin squeezed his hand, grinning up at him.

“Never,” Q said, kissing his cheek and wrapping a tight arm around his waist.He said it like that was just something people said, especially to Eliot, _ about _Eliot, with such ease and certainty. He felt his heart do a stunned flip in his chest and he brushed his lips against the crown of Quentin’s head, messy and rough. 

Sometimes he was still overwhelmed by it all, enough to make him dizzy, to make the world go sideways and bendy, yet full of an endless light. 

Disconcerting, but delightful. 

Delightful, but disconcerting. 

He imagined it was how muggle bungee jumpers felt as the last swoop settled in their stomach and the enormity of their feat caught up with their overstimulated senses. Safe and solid, but still feeling like you’re flying, like you’re falling, like you spat in the face of a god.

Enthralled, Eliot whispered a promise meant to be a surprise. “But I got us a hotel tonight.”

Quentin widened his eyes with a blink of unexpected delight. “In the city?”

“If you’re willing,” Eliot purred, dropping his hand to grab his ass, in a very innocent and surreptitious manner. At Quentin’s happy nod, he smiled and admitted a half-truth. “I may have splurged a tad with my signing bonus.”

(The_ tad _ was the _ half_.)

“I still don’t understand how money works with Magicians,” Quentin said, darkening his face into that thoughtful and faraway look he got when he didn’t immediately grasp a concept.

“Like all economics, sweetheart,” Eliot said brightly, dropping a kiss on his nose. “Nonsensically.”

But Q’s face just darkened even more, eyes going unfocused. “I mean, that’s not totally accur—“

Eliot spun him into his chest, cutting off his futile train of thought with a grin. “The point is, we’re gonna eat gnocchi, drink a nice glass of wine, and talk shit about our friends—“

Quentin groaned, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, oh my god, I have so much shit.”

“Me too,” Eliot assured him, popping a kiss on his lips. “But then we go fuck each other’s brains out on perfectly pressed hotel sheets until we only have mental and physical and, ah, _ magical _ energy for binging nonsense television, hm?”

Quentin shivered, pressing his face into the dip above the panels of Eliot’s waistcoat and arms wrapping all the way around his back. Then he inclined his face up, soft smile blinding as always.

“I’ll raise you fancy hotel shower sex and watching _ Get Out _ on hotel pay-per-view.” Quentin said, like _ pay-per-view _ was a sacred ritual unknown to mere mortals. But then he paused and added, “I’ve heard that movie’s, like, really good.”

So had everyone. He was so damn cute. 

Eliot smiled, tucking Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “You’re on.”

And Quentin smiled back, like that was that, like everything was easy and perfect. And fuck, if it wasn’t true. Everything _ was _ easy and perfect, so much easier and so much more perfect than Eliot could have ever imagined, could have ever fucking dreamed, in all his most ludicrous domestic fantasies.

Which, speaking of—

Eliot sighed, the mood dampening as he pulled out of warm arms to spin around the room, vaguely unimpressed. He pursed his lips. “So what do you think?”

“I think if you wanted to talk about the decor,” Q chuckled, “you should have brought Margo.”

Of course. But Eliot would bring Margo later, if he decided to go with the apartment. Because if he tried to bring her now? Well, he could already hear the arch huff of breath and the sharp _ I don’t do “hypotheticals,” El, Jesus Christ,_ spat out lovingly. Better not to waste time.

Besides, the decor wasn’t the point, not yet. So Eliot shook his head and strode over to the window.

“Don’t worry about the details,” he said, before casting a glance back at Q over his shoulder. “I want to know what you _ think_, overall.”

“Like—?” Quentin tried to coax, but then relented at the stony impatience likely writ all over Eliot’s face. He held his hands out and shrugged, wide and unsure. “Okay, well, I think, uh, it’s a good location.”

Eliot gently sneered, looking down at the green below over his nose. “It’s okay.”

“You would literally have a view of Central Park,” Q countered, wry smile growing. “That’s a big deal.”

“But dull, right?” Eliot stuck out his tongue, shaking his head back. “It’s like being in Paris and having a view of the Eiffel Tower.”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, squinty eyed and scoffing. “That sounds terrible.”

“Or in San Francisco with a view of the Golden Gate.”

“Fucking bullshit.”

Eliot bit down on his teeth, giving cheeky Q an irritated look. This was serious. “It’s a postcard, it’s expected. It makes it feel––not real.”

Quentin softened, brows falling into their puppylike slants. He crossed the room and wrapped an arm around Eliot again, hand running up and down his back. Tension seeped away on a breeze and Eliot nuzzled his nose into soft hair, relishing the _ sage-grass-smoke-and-Q _ scent that he would bottle if he could, as if any magic could ever come close.

Quentin glanced up at him. “What would you want a view of, if you could look at anything?”

Saying _ Your dimples _ was too cheesy and nonsensical, even now, even if true. So Eliot let out a considering breath, frowning over the question.

“Tall buildings in brick and chrome, with the lighting of a golden sunset glowing off them,” he said, picturing the scene in his mind’s eye. He frowned deeper. That pointed toward the Meatpacking district, his favorite double entendre of an overrated neighborhood. Chelsea then too, maybe. But god, how cliche. 

Plus, there was the issue that Eliot’s answer was total bullshit. 

He still did that a lot.

Even when talking to Q, the last person who would expect him to forever maintain some city sophisticate _ artiste _appreciation of the world. Yet his cool and languid lies were still as natural as breathing, still felt truer than truth. That was the fucked up part. But Eliot was getting better at recognizing it and admitting it, even if that was as natural as a horseshoe up the ass.

He was trying to try, a constant work-in-progress. Which meant Eliot tucked Quentin under his chin with a ragged sigh.

“Actually, I don’t know,” he said quietly. “I think that’s more what I _ think _ I’m supposed to say. Maria’s pointed out how I do that.”

Q stilled at the unexpected name drop. 

He pulled back a bit to look up, surprised and sweetly cautious. “Right. Uh, how’s that going?”

Everything was easy and perfect. 

“It’s fine,” Eliot said, placid smile at the ready. But he caught it and sucked in his lower lip with a breathy laugh, flexing underused muscles as he swallowed. “It’s—it’s hard.”

… Except when it wasn’t. 

See, the _ being Eliot _part of being Eliot didn’t just go away. The worst of him still thrived under his shields, under his new lease on life, always kicking up dirt and causing a scene.

And then, you know, to be fair—

There was also Q’s _ occasional _ tendency to bottle shit up until it exploded, and his _ itty-bitty _ predilection for snarky-ass passive aggression, and his _ insignificant _ habit of eating soup in bed like that was something people actually did. And sometimes, these things made Eliot feel _microscopic _amounts of annoyance and frustration.

Anyway, they had their shit. Like everyone had their shit. Usually, they talked it through and fucked in celebration of talking it through. 

But not always.

The worst had been when Eliot and Margo’s friend from their first year came to visit. It was that fun idiot Rick, who always brought a dopey smile and dangerously good times along with him. Thus, despite his early evening promise to stick to a three-drink limit, Eliot had proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk off his ass.

It had been the first time since December 18th and it had been from an overabundance of fucking _ Jello shots, _no less. Atrocity of atrocities. And of course, Eliot had also promptly blacked out, body out of practice and shocked into complacency. Because top notch decision making had always been his greatest strength.

Even two months later, Eliot only had blurry polaroids of the night imprinted on his memory. Dancing on tables, snorting something shiny, wearing his tie like a bandana. Et cetera, et cetera, sigh. 

He was also told—repeatedly, from various sources—about how he went on casting spree through campus. They all breathlessly recounted how he celebrated his renewed love of booze, with grand proclamations, as he literally soared through the sky. They said his laughter echoed off every brick, the hysterical giddiness calling forth a band of true believers—Little Waughs—all following in happy suit, in a raucous pandemonium of dancing and revelry. 

It painted an evocative picture, he had to admit.

—Anyway, then the polaroids got less fun.

Bambi told him the fight was mostly petty bullshit, with a side of drunken nuclear weapon lodging. Which sounded right, at least from the flashing blurs that gutted him dry whenever he dared to dwell upon them. 

He remembered a stricken glare of betrayal, from _someone _ refused to have _ fun _ with Eliot, no matter how _loudly_ Eliot insisted on it. He remembered hostile words spat out in haste. He remembered storming away, way more than once. He remembered sobbing in the shower, begging them not to leave, to _ please stay, _as strong arms held him up and smaller hands held his face. 

And Eliot definitely remembered waking up in Quentin’s lap, eyes pained even by the gray morning light. He definitely remembered a cool rag on his forehead and a hand sliding through his hair. And he would always remember a soft kiss to his cheekbone and a gentle voice that said, _ El, I really think you would benefit from therapy._

Anyway, Quentin didn’t push it after that, because he was Quentin. And it took Eliot another two weeks to make an appointment, because he was Eliot. Once he finally worked up the courage, he started going weekly and it was—

Hard.

But he was doing it, even though it was hard, even though talking fucking sucked. Even though it made him feel like he was ripping his own bones out from under his skin every goddamn time. 

That had to count for something, right?

Back on land, Quentin smoothed down the lapels of his vest and lingered around a gold button. “I don’t ask unless you bring it up because I don’t want to—“

“I know, sweetheart,” Eliot said, leaning down to kiss him, just once. “Thank you.”

Q gave him a small smile but didn’t say anything more, obviously letting Eliot take the lead. He hated it, he was grateful for it, and Quentin was still the reason it was all fucking worth it. So for that reason only, Eliot took the proffered rein, tightening his grip around Quentin’s shoulders and walking them closer to the window with an equivocating frown.

“No, it’s good,” Eliot said, half-meaning it. “She’s kind of a hippie and is all _ free love and jam bands, man—_” he put on a vocal fry and held his hand up in a peace sign to an amused snort from Q “—but then kicks my ass without breaking a sweat. It’s an intriguing mix of traits.”

Eliot could see Quentin’s face in the reflection of the fogged window, distorted and faint. There, his lip worried between his teeth. “You’re comfortable with her?”

It should have been a difficult question, considering how difficult it was for Eliot to get his ass into that office every damn time. But surprisingly, the answer was actually quite simple.

“I like her, which is—a trip,” he said with a smile and he could feel Q relax against his side. Truth often needed further truths to actually be true though. 

“But some of it still fucking sucks.” Eliot swallowed and let out a sharp breath, staring down at the line of yellow taxis that looked like playthings. “We’ve been talking about you a lot and that freaks me out.”

Fingers trailed up and down his spine, soft and coaxing in the best way. “Why does it freak you out?”

Eliot let out a small snort and hid his face in the strands of Quentin’s hair. He affected his usual light and airy tone, a minor shield against the words he was about to say.

“Oh, maybe because I’m worried that one day I’ll be too honest and she’ll tell me I’m right and that I’m too broken to be with you and then _ obviously _ I’d have to quit therapy, you know, because she can go fuck herself. And yet no matter what I do, her words will haunt me and thus shall I live out all my days with wondering guilt about whether I’m nothing but a yoke around your neck,” he said in one breath, before offering Q a strained smile. “But I haven’t thought about it that much.”

That Quentin pulled him down into a searing kiss shouldn’t have been a shock by then, but it still took his breath away. Sliding his hands into their home in silken hair, Eliot let the kiss linger, slow and sweet, until Q broke away with his most determined face jutted up at him.

His eyes blazed bright and true. “If she ever said anything in same _ acreage _ of that bullshit, I would be the captain of Team She Can Go Fuck Herself, okay?”

“I love you,” Eliot said, murmuring his constant awe. 

With a warm sigh, Quentin softened, hand smoothing up his chest to rest around his neck. The feeling of his thumb brushing his jaw was almost as hypnotic as the way he whispered the words back into his lips. 

When they broke away, Q also said, “But that kind of thought process is, like, exactly what therapy can help you work through, El.”

“I know. Sometimes I’d still rather talk to you though,” Eliot said, turning his face in to kiss Q’s palm. Then he studiously brightened. Enough was enough. “Not today though. Today, we decide if I live here or get my own place.”

He would make enough money to afford either a decent Magician place or a fabulous Muggle place, albeit with shitty access to portals. And there was something to be said for choosing his own space from the ground up, rather than working with the soulless framework provided before him.

But Quentin didn’t miss a beat in his over-the-top eye roll. “Yeah, uh, there’s literally no draw back. It’s free. Take it and make a final decision later.”

“It’s a statement,” Eliot said, tapping his thumb against his lips as he contemplated the space, pacing them in a circle. “It’s saying I’m a bougie Manhattan Magician socialite.”

“Not a good thing?”

Eliot frowned. “Neutral thing.” _ Maybe we could try that again? _ Maria’s voice said kindly. “A need-to-get-used-to thing.” _ Ooh, one more time please. _He sighed, frowning deeper. “An I’m-still-nervous-you’re-unimpressed thing.”

“Impressed and proud,” Quentin said, straightening back his shoulders like he was called up to duty. But Eliot ticked a brow at him and he shrugged, cheeks tinged pink. “Well, I mean, yeah, like, I know I might not ever be an expert hobnobber—“

At that, Eliot’s smile cracked like a bright light across his face. _ Hobnobber._ “No? Really?”

Quentin elbowed him with another eye roll. “—but I’ll try for you, if you’ll try for me.”

“Always,” Eliot promised with a nuzzle to his temple.

“Then we’re good. This is good,” Quentin said emphatically, all trademarked optimism, as he took his hand, swinging their arms between them. “Plus, like, lunch with Idri went pretty well I thought.”

Oh.

Huh.

… Sure, Q.

Eliot widened his eyes and nodded, a high-pitched squeak caught in his throat. 

Lunch with Idri had been—it had been something that happened, that was true. It had happened that day. It had been at a nice restaurant, one of the ones in the mall at Columbus Circle. Fancy shit that usually made Quentin groan, but he hadn’t groaned once, which was very generous of him.

That was where the positives ended though.

“It did go well. You were great,” Eliot lied, moving his hand up to massage the nape of Q’s neck. He cleared his throat, testing the water. “Though maybe next time we could work on you, ah, making occasional eye contact too?”

He smiled brightly but only got a dark glare in return. Swing and goddamn miss.

Quentin set his mouth and crossed his arms. “I made eye contact.”

He did not. 

But it meant a lot to Eliot that he was willing to try at all, so he immediately dropped the rope and nodded, kissing his forehead. It didn’t matter if Quentin and Idri liked each other. They’d see each other at holiday parties, max. And Q had been—_mostly _ good with Eliot needing to meet with Idri to go over early plans and strategy, so it wasn’t like it was affecting his work. 

Shit was a work-in-progress, right? 

“Anyway, I’m saying I get it,” Quentin said, cutting through his thoughts to lace their hands back together. “I have to tell my brain to shut up too. You know, when I worry I won’t, like, fit into your life.”

His big brown eyes shrugged up at him, plaintive and sweet. And Eliot’s heart collapsed on itself as he reeled him into his chest. _ You are my life, _he thought without hesitation as he kissed Q, cradling his face between his hands. 

(Maria would definitely have something to say about _ that, _but sometimes Maria really could go fuck herself.)

When he finally pulled away, Eliot twisted his lips and glared around the cavernous space. He sighed, resigned. “Fine. It’ll do.”

Quentin gave him a snarky thumbs up. “Resounding.”

“Not worn in yet,” Eliot said, especially scrunching his nose at the goddamn _ marble _ in the kitchen, meant for people who didn’t actually fucking cook. “So it’ll chafe for a minute.”

Quentin rubbed his chin, nearly a parody of thoughtfulness, if it wasn’t so earnest. “Maybe there’s, like, a spell so you could make it look like the Cottage for a little? Ease you into the change?”

Eliot’s incredulous snort was swift and unforgiving.

“God, fuck, could you imagine if I did that?” He shook his head, rolling his eyes. “How sad.”

The shutter over Quentin’s eyes was equally swift. “No sadder than a grown man with Fillory shit all over his room, I guess.”

Eliot sighed. Because, right, yeah, that was another thing Q did.

He recontextualized unrelated statements through the lens of insecurities and then applied the new interpretation to his own perceived failings. After which, he got annoyed at Eliot for triggering the mindfuck, even though there was no way to anticipate it.

It was super fun.

“Hm, that one was a reach,” Eliot said gently, twirling the end of Q’s hair between his fingers. “Curious how you got there?”

Quentin tensed again and shot his eyes back out the window, jaw clenching and muscles popping. “There’s no shame in finding comfort in familiarity.”

Oh, Jesus. He never said there was.

Eliot took a nice deep breath and pressed a firm kiss to Quentin’s temple, silently begging him out of that gorgeous, fucked up brain of his.

“Absolutely true,” Eliot said, meaning it. But also. “But also, it’s good to know when to let things go. Turning points, right?”

At that, Quentin stared up at him with such heartbreaking sincerity, all doe eyes and trembling mouth that inappropriately made his cock twitch. But just as Eliot was about to duck his head down and take a _ tiny _ bite of that lower lip, Q sighed and pinched his brow to say—

“So you think I should get rid of all my Fillory shit?”

“Oh my god,” Eliot laughed, pulling him into a tight hug and firmly kissing the top of his head. “We were not even remotely discussing that, baby.”

“I know.” Quentin spoke into his vest, mumbling and grumbling. “But it’s been on my mind.”

“You don’t say,” Eliot chuckled into his hair. Knowing when to take charge, he pulled Q across the room toward their hanging coats. “Come on, you can talk about it while we walk to dinner.”

As usual, Quentin didn’t need to be told twice and the faucet started pouring without end. Eliot smiled to himself as Q talked and talked, helping him with his coat and leading him out the door with his hand on the small of his chatty back.

“—So it’s just, like, Jules worries that I’m basically surrounding myself with constant memories of being hospitalized, which she thinks impedes my growth without me realizing it,” Quentin continued, slumping all the way into Eliot with his entire weight as they settled into the small magical elevator. “But, like, it doesn’t feel like that? I’m not sure why she would make that assumption?”

He was apparently actually asking, based on the way his unfocused eyes ticked up at him. So Eliot shrugged, putting in the wardbreaker to get them down to the lobby with a thoughtful pinch to his lips.

“Well, I’d guess Fillory reminds _ her _ of when you were hospitalized,” he posited, stepping back onto his heel so Q could completely rest against him. “Julia sucks at seeing outside herself sometimes.”

It was true. Eliot would say that to Julia too, even now. But he meant it in a kind way, in an empathetic way. He recognized the undercurrent of soul-trembling fear, right under the skin, whenever Q got more and more engrossed in the books, when he wouldn’t talk about anything else. It was a siren, for sure.

But Julia was a large picture thinker with a smattering of extreme myopic perspectives, especially when it came to Quentin. It was hard for her to parse out the difference between Q’s standard love of Fillory and when he was turning inward because he _needed_ Fillory, because shit was going south, bad and fast. 

It was understandable—even _ easy _—to say that Quentin should rid himself of the reminder of his depression hyperfixation at all costs. But it was also missing the forest for the trees.

“Shit,” Quentin said quietly, blinking into a frown. “I never thought of that. That actually makes sense.”

“She doesn’t get the comfort it brings or the hope you see in it, even when your brain isn’t actively breaking on you,” Eliot continued, absently playing with Quentin’s hair. The elevator ticked down with ringing bell pings. “You should focus on that when you talk to her about it. _ If _ you do. It’s also reasonable to tell her you don’t want to engage.”

“Damn,” Quentin said, blinking again. This time he smiled. “Therapy, bitches.”

The elevator doors opened to the lobby as Eliot kissed him, endlessly charmed by things that shouldn’t charm him.

“My newfound psychological expertise is going to be _ so _useful when I’m a cult leader,” Eliot said brightly, tangling their fingers for all the world to see. “Anyway, let’s go, I’m starving.”

As they braced themselves against the wet and cool air, drizzle flying at their faces and enchanted umbrella fighting against the breeze, Quentin tucked into Eliot’s side, both of them warm and dry and safe.

Q looked up at Eliot with a soft smile—like he _felt_ warm and dry and safe—and kissed him, quick and chaste. Eliot felt it in his soul.

Then Quentin sighed, rolling his eyes. “But really, it’s also none of her goddamn business how I decorate my room.”

“Well, that’s just true,” Eliot said, matching his annoyance in the spirit of camaraderie. He held the umbrella out and pushed them forward, off toward the mythic subway. “Fuckin’ Julia.”

Quentin smirked, arm wrapping tight around his waist. “Fuckin’ Julia.”

* * *

  
The gnocchi was excellent, per usual, at the little muggle spot they had grown to call their own. 

The company was even better, with Quentin’s beautiful face illuminated by candlelight glowing above white linen. It was a detail Q always called a hazard (“Oh, whoa, that’s a hazard,”) without fail, every time they sat down. And _ that _ detail always made Eliot smile, without fail, every time they sat down next to each other. Because, yes, they were also one of those gross couples that sat next to each other instead of across from each other, mostly so Eliot could whisper dirty little things to a blushing Q as the mood struck. 

Point was, it was sopping romantic in every wonderful way that Eliot had never known he wanted, for so long. For far too long.

(On the other hand, the one time he tried to feed Quentin a bite of food, Q had rolled his eyes and said, “I know how to use a fork.” So some things didn’t change.)

After lingering over a tiramisu for longer than necessary, the two of them stepped out to find the evening sky quieted. The streets shined with low headlights and burgeoning streetlights, reflecting golden life and steel in streaks of water and grime. But the air was pleasantly cool, so Eliot and Quentin walked to the hotel on 57th and Park—the worst part of town that Eliot still desperately found himself wanting to conquer.

Consistency in desire was for suckers.

So conquer he did, ushering Q into a private elevator and crowding him against the wall, kissing him senseless. Dizzy and hot, Eliot skimmed hands and lips and teeth everywhere he could reach the whole fifty-two story journey upward into the Manhattan sky.

He had been a very patient man all day, a blight against nature.

They stumbled out of the elevator and immediately into the room, with Eliot barely giving the surroundings a second glance. Without even coming up for air, he unbuttoned their coats and slid them to the floor, and his hands slid back into Q’s hair, focused and with a thousand types of intent.

But Quentin was on an observant alert, taking a breath to wrench his face away from Eliot. And he stared around the room with the squinted eyes of a detective. 

It had been building from his first suspicious brow twitch in the lobby. 

The movement had astutely registered how everyone at reception lit up when seeing their full reservation. Q’s forehead wrinkled tightly when the concierge had rushed over, bending over backwards to kiss each of Eliot’s rings, full with tongue. Then finally, his whole damn face deepened into Sherlock Holmes territory when they were escorted to their own elevator, the words _ Our pleasure, Mr. Waugh _thrown around like candy and oxygen.

So it wasn’t a huge shock when his pretty mouth gaped open, stilled and awed against Eliot’s best efforts. Quentin faltered back once, blinking and sputtering as he stepped further into the room, arms flat against his side, drawing to pop.

“Jesus Christ, Eliot,” he said, staring up at the cathedral ceiling and then out the massive window. “What the fuck?”

The room glittered in low lights, the white walls shining with lacquer and precious stone, rising high to a dramatic point. Falling down from above was a twisting glass chandelier, silhouetted by a sweeping view of all Manhattan. A roaring fireplace greeted them from afar and the first room itself was larger than the whole downstairs of the magically enhanced Cottage.

“Nice, right?” Eliot said, waving a dismissive hand toward the splendor, before pressing Q against the nearest shiny wall and returning to his mission, teeth scraping against soft skin. “Let’s find the bedroom.”

“Sure, uh, do you have the map handy?”

And Quentin was officially distracted. 

Great.

Eliot rested all his weight against Q’s shoulder, growing sexual frustration emanating from a single point on his forehead. He sighed, popping one cocked eye up at one adorably flabbergasted face.

“You said I could spoil you a little this time,” Eliot said quietly, _ seductively, _fingers trailing up and down Quentin’s sides, dipping up and under his shirt. He nipped down at the spot on his neck, the one that always did it for Q.

—But no dice.

“Yeah, but I thought that meant––” Quentin cut himself off with a fly-catching wide mouth, eyes somehow even wider. He dragged himself out of Eliot’s wanting arms to scrunch his face at the shimmering details, luxurious even to the layman. “But this is—this is—how much did this cost?”

It was the most expensive hotel room in New York.

Eliot clicked his tongue against his teeth. “That’s a very rude question.”

His gentle chastisement did not have the intended disarming effect. Instead, Quentin lowered his brow into a foreboding chastisement of his own. 

His voice was a low warning. “Eliot—“

“Oh, humor me, Coldwater,” Eliot said smoothly, winding his arms around him from behind. He smiled against the shell of his ear, whispering. “Think of that sad little boy standing in a cold and lonely cornfield, who never thought he’d get—“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Q said, dropping his head back onto Eliot’s shoulder, relaxing against his chest. “Though for the record, this feels more like you spoiling _ you_.”

Not incorrect.

It was a weird month. And they deserved a little glamour.

Eliot deserved a little glamour.

So he conceded the point by chuckling and then biting the soft skin of his earlobe, hands smoothing down Quentin’s stomach and under the band of his jeans until he could feel a smattering of soft-coarse curls. He chuckled even more at the sharp intake of breath he elicited, like Q was shocked and pleased, like it was the first time Eliot had touched him like this.

Though Eliot also couldn’t deny the way his own heart rate picked up, the giddy lightheadedness racing up his spine as his lips buried into the warm skin of his neck, as he felt Q harden under his fingers.

(... And he _ also _ couldn’t deny that Maria would have something to say about Eliot’s tendency to use his “trauma” as a lighthearted means of teasing Quentin, the way he _ la-di-da _ deflected it as humorous, like it something so detached he could joke about it. Like that was strength, like that was acceptance and healing, rather than a new tactic for avoidance.

—She was annoying as shit.)

But Quentin was a _ fucking tease _and pulled away again with little more than a consolation kiss to the underside of Eliot’s jaw, the fucking tease. 

Q walked over to the enormous glass table by the enormous window (with two golden rams’ heads at the base, _ you’re welcome _) and flipped open the leatherbound information packet, shaking his pretty head all the while.

“Seriously,” Quentin said, glancing up over his shoulder and swiping his hand over the thick linen white paper. “You know this is all totally lost on me, right?”

“The mother-of-pearl inlay doesn’t scratch your aesthetic itch?” Eliot reached his hand out and ran his fingers across the cool wall, dancing across the iridescent detail.

Q snorted, eyes ticking up to roll along with his small grin, still flipping through the pages. “Maybe if I knew what an inlay was.”

“Aw,” Eliot said, crossing the room and wrapping soft hair into his hands, twisting the strands into a bun as he teased. “I’m sure you can figure it out with that big brain of yours.”

Quentin read a lot. He could use some context clues to put together _ in _ and _ lay _ when it came to wall interior design. Just like how he could figure out _ Phosphoromancy _ if he really tried his best.

They were all rooting for him.

“This says we have a Rolls-Royce chauffeur service?” Quentin stuck out his tongue and scoffed, as though Eliot _ wasn’t _peppering expert kisses on the nape of his neck. “I mean, I guess that’s one way to get stuck in fucking Midtown gridlock.”

“Grumpy Gus,” Eliot breathed into his skin, barely able to tamp down a fond smile. “Come here.”

But the pages just flipped with more and more zeal.

“Unlimited massages? There’s a zen room? A library? A grand piano? An infinity tub?” Quentin flipped around and put his hands on his cute little hips. “How much did this _ cost _, Eliot?”

At that, Eliot _ tsk_’d his lips up once, stepping right into his space and kissing him, soft and sweet. Quentin was such a worrywart, so easily riled up. His irritation was intoxicating.

Eliot walked them back against the white wall, contrasted next to the black and light-dappled cityscape below. Quentin was still murmuring things like, _ And what the fuck is Chinese onyx? _against his lips and so Eliot sighed, cupping his face between his hands.

Then he sunk to his knees, flicking open a button in one quick movement.

“Oh—_ oh _,” Quentin breathed, finally halting his brain. His fingers slid into Eliot’s hair automatically, as Eliot pulled him out reverently. “Oh, this is what we’re doing.”

Eliot smirked, nuzzling gently before lavishing the head with a slow kiss. “Yes, Q, this is what we’re doing.”

Eyes tracing upward, he could see the line of Quentin’s throat spasm and his eyes close, as Eliot sucked him slowly, a tease begot from teasing.

“Like, uh,” Q pitched his voice up, knees buckling. “Like, right now?”

“Like, right now,” Eliot promised, before taking him all the way into the heat of his mouth, thrilling at the feel of him hardening against his tongue, at the sound of the small noises Quentin always, always made, immediate and unbidden and wild.

And so, all teasing ceased.

* * *

Splayed over a huge silk comforter and under a truly obscene ceiling canopy, Quentin settled his cheek along Eliot’s hipbone, their breaths and pulses finally cooling in the clean afterglow. 

Eliot rested against a cloud masquerading as a pillow, while Q nosed at his pelvis, twining his fingers through the hair he found there. He stayed like that for a long time, with his own silky hair fanned out across Eliot’s chest, and his hands moved and scratched and pet, without heat. It was pure exploration, growing more experimental and calculating with each moment. 

It was hypnotic, meditative. Eliot closed his eyes, quiet and content.

But when sharp little pinch pulls came from down below, he finally broke, along with a smile across his face. “Whatcha doin’, Q?”

He couldn’t see his face, but Eliot could feel the lines of his jaw tensing, like Quentin was squinting, observing. “Your pubes are, like, perfect.”

“Oh?” Eliot laughed, tugging at the ends of Q’s own perfect hair. “Is that so?”

Quentin flopped onto his belly, digging his chin into the line right above said hair and giving Eliot a rather spectacular view of his ass. “Pretty sure they’re the Platonic ideal of pubes.”

“I condition them,” Eliot said, certain the fondness in his voice was a billboard for his heart. “It’s an involved process.”

“Seriously?” Q flashed his warm brown eyes up at Eliot and smiled at the slow confirmatory nod. Then he returned back to his exploration. “The curls are so curly and shiny, and it’s like I can see every one.”

“Mmm,” Eliot said distractedly, since he was distracted by how the curve of Quentin’s ass felt under his fingers. “Happy to know my work has paid off in your appreciation.”

“It’s like if you pull on one, it’ll just, uh,” Q tilted his nose down, fingers twisting and twirling above the curls, “sproing back.”

Eliot stilled his hand—fingers wide around impossibly smooth skin—and tucked his lip between his teeth. “Sproing?”

“Yeah, see?” Quentin buried his fingers down and then pulled, hard. Sure enough, the hair straightened out and then popped right back into a curl. Again, and again, and again. “_ Sproing _ . Sproing. _ Sproing _. Sproi—“

Eliot’s breath caught in his throat, wild and tight with the knowledge that this was real. That Q was there with him, _ with him_, despite everything, despite fucking _ everything_, and that was—

That was—

“God, you’re a dork,” he said, like his heart wasn’t raw and overworked in his chest, ready to explode if he didn’t feel the warm pressure of Quentin’s body over it immediately. “Get up here.”

He gathered Quentin onto his chest and wrapped them in the opulent blanket, pressing kisses to his cheeks and nose between bright smiles. The weight of him, the warmth of him, quieted the universe.

“Well, I can’t be that dorky if I got an Eliot smile out of it,” Q said, laughing into his breastbone. “I’m suave as hell they say.”

Oh, sweetheart.

“You are absolutely that dorky and that’s why you make me smile,” Eliot said, meaning to tease but coming out aching, a confession into his hair. “Among other reasons.”

Quentin kissed the space just above his heart and snuggled in tight. Silence covered them like pleasant rain, dripping and warm, otherworldly. Eliot wrote words into Quentin’s back with his fingertips, ones he knew, but ones he could never know well enough.

“Do you need to talk about it?”

Eliot almost didn’t hear Quentin’s question, uttered so softly into the low light. And pathetically, his first instinct was to lighten his tone and scoff, _Talk about what? _

But he was still trying to be better than his instincts—first or otherwise—especially as the stakes grew every day, along with his boundless love for Q. So Eliot swallowed and ran his hand through his hair, kissing his forehead.

“I should be asking you that,” he said simply, pulling him closer so every part of them was touching. His dick gave a newly interested twitch at the still novel feel of _ naked Quentin, _but that wasn’t the point right now.

“Except I’m fine,” Quentin said, as he always did. Eliot pushed a knuckle into a tense spot in his back, kneading. Coaxing.

“It’s okay if you’re not,” he said softly, relishing the low happy moan Q gave at the unexpected massage. “Just because I haven’t been doesn’t mean you—“

Quentin cut him off with a kiss, surging up with his arms wrapped all around his neck, hands deep in his hair. Then he broke away, smiling with a touch of melancholy as their foreheads pressed together.

“I know, baby,” Q said softly and Eliot kissed him again for it. “But the thing is, I’m, like, way less full of shit than you are.”

Eliot snorted. “Thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” Quentin said with a sigh, gentle eyes belying his bratty grin. “If I wasn’t fine, you’d know. Not always the case with you.”

Fair enough.

“You do have a terrible poker face,” Eliot said, letting his mouth spark up at Quentin’s instant indignation. He was so easy. He was perfect.

“We’re not changing the subject,” Q said fairly and firmly, eyes dark and determined, “but my lack of poker face_ is _ my poker face. I would sweep you goddamn clean.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Eliot said, wide-eyed and never condescending. He laughed and dipped down to bite the tip of the middle finger wagged in his face. Then he kissed it because, well, that was who he was now.

Quentin’s face went soft and he curled back into Eliot, facing away from him, staying close. The perfect position for talking about heavy shit. “Tomorrow’s a weird day—“

“One way to put it,” Eliot said, sniffing over a clench in his chest.

“—and, like, I know you’ve been trying to not overburden me with your feelings or whatever,” Quentin said, playing with Eliot’s fingers, his rings, the lines on his palm. “But I meant what I said that first night, that I don’t want you to carry it alone. That’s, like, what I’m here for.”

“I know,” Eliot said quietly. He let out a shaky breath and wound his arms around Q, like a child clinging to a raft. “I know. But I think I’m mostly looking for a distraction right now.”

“You don’t say.” Quentin traced his eyes up the lines of the lavish room, all gentle amusement. Eliot chuckled despite himself, slowly learning to enjoy his own predictability, the way Q did. Q made things like that much easier than he ever would have guessed.

“That’s the other reason you’ve been coming up with Maria,” Eliot admitted without really meaning to. He felt Q’s nod but didn’t see it, because his throat tightened and his eyes closed. “I’ve been dreaming about it. A lot. The only thing that helps—is keeping my mind off it.”

Quentin stroked his thumb along the veins on the back of Eliot’s hand, could probably feel the cold rush of blood. “So you don’t want to, like, process? Ahead of the day?”

Eliot was nothing but a process right now. 

Every fractured part of his heart, every whir in his brain, every ache in his bones was process, process, _ process _. And coming up on The Anniversary—of what happened in April, the Kady shit, the worst day of his life, whatever the hell one wanted to call it—all he wanted was for the gears to click in place, to give him peace. He wanted to forget and focus on the gorgeous man in his arms, and nothing else.

And Eliot was getting better at asking for what he wanted.

“Out loud?” He filled one side of his mouth with air and exhaled, dropping a wincing kiss on the top of his head. “Not really.” Then he paused, uncertain again. “Is—is that okay?”

“Yeah, just offering,” Quentin said, like he really was. He brought Eliot’s hand up to his lips and kissed his knuckles, and that was that. Q nodded over toward the wall-sized television. “Wanna watch _ Get Out_? I’ve heard it’s, like, really good.”

Eliot smiled, eternally grateful for him.

—But no, he didn’t want to fucking watch _ Get Out_. 

He didn’t want to watch horror or social commentary or anything that made his brain engage beyond the giddy swoop of his stomach after two fictional characters finally kissed, as well the feel of his own romantic hero’s back leaning on his chest.

“Let’s see if we can find something more lighthearted,” Eliot said, flipping on the television with telekinesis and scrolling the menu options while chewing on his lips. “Maybe a nice rom-com.”

Then something terrible happened.

Quentin grumbled and rolled his eyes. “But I hate romantic comedies”

Time stopped. Wars ceased. The cries of the saints turned breathless in their horror.

Eliot slit burning eyes over at Q, a growl behind his teeth. “Excuse me?”

Quentin shrugged, like he hadn’t thrown Eliot’s whole world off its axis and hurling into space. “They’re all the same.”

He had some fucking nerve. 

Eliot crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down so hard as a single dark curl obscured his vision. “Like your whole sci-fi and fantasy genre _ never _follows a formula.”

Q bobbed his head back and forth, shaking his Pedant Finger wildly. “Okay, yeah, no, but that’s different.”

Eliot let his mouth fall open, wide and indignant. “How the fuck is it different?”

“Because, like, rom-coms are all heteronormative garbage,” Quentin said, throwing his hands up and going into full-blown Q mode. “They’re all like, _ Hi, I’m a fucking blonde woman named Patti _––”

Eliot forced down a laugh, ticking his brow with a wobbly, “... Patti?”

“—_and I work in publishing, which is actually a grueling-ass industry, but I spend all my time drinking, like, lattes and tripping over rugs and shit. _”

“It makes her relatable to the average American,” Eliot explained patiently. “We’re a klutzy, coffee-drinking culture, Q.”

Quentin sat up more, wind filling his sails. “And then there’s, like, a brown-haired actor from England but they make him speak like an American, even though he’d be way hotter with the accent—”

Eliot nodded thoughtfully. “Point to Quentin.”

“—and he’s all, _ I’m a playboy hotshot architect up for a promotion and I have no need for human connection because I’m probably a sociopath.” _ Q put on a criminally nerdy approximation of a brawny asshole voice and Eliot fell in love with him all over again. “ _ So I’m gonna be a total douchebag for most of the movie and ride a motorbike inexplicably. _”

“It represents his powerful dick,” Eliot purred into Q’s ear, sliding a hand up his thigh. But Quentin was on a roll, never to be deterred.

“Then the two of them do increasingly demented and cruel things to each other but it’s, like, packaged as the height of fucking romance until finally Patti dumps his ass for lying to her about some promotion-related bullshit—which, like, why does his promotion have anything to do with her?” Q threw his hands in the air. “Who the fuck knows!”

As he ranted, Quentin’s voice pitched up and up, and he scrubbed his hand down his face, apparently genuinely distressed.

It was very cute.

(Also, Eliot had to say that Q really knew a lot about the basic structure of rom-coms for someone who quote-unquote hated them.)

“But despite that single wise decision, all sanity ends abruptly with the douchebag running through the city and being like,” Quentin let his eyes get heavy-lidded, dumb adorable voice turning back on, “_I __love you, you are the other half of my soul, you’ve enchanted my heart with your crystalline eyes _even though he’s had all the poetry of, like, a skateboarding dog before that point.”

Eliot fucking loved him.

Quentin huffed a deep breath and slumped over, out of steam. “Then they make out in the rain, cut to credits. It’s boring.”

The only sound was their heavy breaths and the chipper hotel channel, telling them about the great sights of the great city. Eliot slid his hand over Quentin’s and squeezed, falling back into the soft pillows and gazing up at him through his lashes.

“I really want you to know,” Eliot said, with every ounce of tenderness in his heart, “that I would watch the fuck out of the movie you just pitched.”

Quentin snorted but fell down into his arms, where he belonged. He sighed as Eliot happily nosed at his jaw, staring up at the ceiling, cute little brow pinching in that cute little way.

“They always have so much shit between them that they don’t deal with. Like, at all,” Q said with a thoughtful frown. “We never see them address, like, their trust issues or how they’re going to communicate better in the future.”

Eliot smiled into his cheek. “Because no one _ cares _ about that, Q.”

“But like, we barely even know why they love each other, why it’s all so worth their, uh, mutual mountains of asocial bullshit,” Quentin continued, curling down into Eliot. His voice was muffled and Eliot could feel his lips move against his chest. “Usually there’s one scene where the douchebag meets Patti’s wacky family and he smiles at her and we’re supposed to just, like, intuit true love.”

Again, quite the evocative and specific detail from an avowed hater.

“It’s popcorn bullshit fun,” Eliot said lightly, trailing a hand down the knobs of Q’s spine, lazy and relaxed. “No different than your cookie cutter superhero movies.”

Quentin popped the fuck up at that. “They’re not cookie cutter.”

And Eliot knew the only way forward.

“Name one difference between Captain America and Superman,” he said slowly, letting his smile take over his face like syrup, like diffused light, like destiny. And Quentin turned a stony glare on him, fingers grabbing fistfuls of fancy sheets as his face turned pale.

His voice was brittle as he said, “I am not having that conversation again.”

“Because you know I’m right,” Eliot said, stroking his hair and pressing kisses up the column of his neck. Quentin turned a delicious shade of splotchy red as he worked his jaw and his gorgeous hands and fuck, Eliot wanted every piece of him.

“No, you are not—the physical changes in Captain America are the result of—and, and, and fucking Superman is a _ goddamn—_no,” Quentin managed to get out, as Eliot just kept humming sweetly and kissing him. “No, just, like, pick your rom-com. This is a nice night. We’re having a nice night.”

“Great!” Eliot said cheerfully, pulling away with a shit eating grin even riled up Nerd Q couldn’t resist. He got a quick, annoyed kiss for his efforts. All was well.

—And Steve Rogers was the same as Clark Kent, the end.

So Eliot turned back to the menu options, victorious, before landing on one of the many retro offerings with an even bigger grin. “Ooh, _ Never Been Kissed._ A classic.”

Quentin shrugged. “Don’t know it.”

Oh, he was in for a _ treat_. 

Eliot waggled his brows and rubbed his hands together, shifting so Quentin was basically laying on top of him.

“Late ‘90s Drew Barrymore as an irresponsible journalist infiltrating teen life,” he summed up with a grin, before whispering conspiratorially. “The cute English teacher thinks she’s his seventeen-year-old high school student, basically the whole time. They fall in love at first sight and end up making out in a baseball field.” He paused to stick the landing. “They compare it to _ As You Like It_.”

It was the Greatest Movie of All Time—and it’s was thematically relevant to their sex life. 

Win-win.

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin sighed, shaking his head. Then he frowned a little. “Also, spoilers.”

“So sorry,” Eliot laughed, nuzzling his temple. He wound his arms around Quentin from behind as the movie started and the warm comfort of beautiful nothing overtook them.

As it was, the masterpiece film was as cheesy and ridiculous and adorable as he remembered. The early bits featured a mousy brunette Drew in some truly terrible pleated skirts but with a far too cute face to be so unlucky in love. Then she dyed her hair blonde but wore makeup that washed her out and met the impossibly hot teacher in soft beige sweaters who wanted his students to call him Sam, with goddamn bedroom eyes. Which, like—

Yes, _ sir_.

And true to his rom-com hating word, Quentin quickly lost interest, turning to the siren call of his phone and internet access. He scrolled through Reddit and other terrible websites while remaining propped against him, only interjecting with a _ Wait, is that James Franco? _ and a _ Shit, I forgot David Arquette was ever, like, a thing _ and an _ Uh, were the screenwriters all homeschooled or something? _as occasional bitchy commentary. And Eliot called them over snacks and a little wine, and they lounged, free from their troubles.

It felt domestic.

It felt really nice.

But just as it was prom night, and Mr. Sam Coulson slow danced with his goddamn student and was about to fucking tell her that he loved her, all while a couple of bitches planned to dump dog food on a model-beautiful girl they called Alpo—because it was _ the greatest movie of all time_—Quentin jolted up, eyes wild and darting.

“Oh my _ god_, Eliot,” Q sputtered out, hand in his forehead like he had a fever. “What the—what the fuck?”

“I know,” Eliot said, popping a chocolate in his mouth. He nodded in joyful commiseration. “This is such a juicy part.”

“No, I mean, _ what the fuck _?” Quentin hissed, slamming his finger on the face of his phone. “Is this right?”

Eliot glanced over his shoulder and, uh-oh, oops, Q had googled _ four seasons ny penthouse cost per night _and the (definitely right) answer came up over and over again in bold, highlighted in several online travel magazine articles.

Which, yeah.

It was a large number.

“You can’t—“ Quentin gaped at him again, hand in his hair, strands shaking in the luxurious air. He squeezed his eyes tight. “How big was your fucking signing bonus? How much are you _ making _ at this fucking job?”

Eliot would make a lot.

Like… a lot.

Even by Magician standards. 

Not because the market valued event planning so highly. Rather, all payment was an ongoing blessing from Bacchus, enacted centuries ago, in perpetuity. Which must have been why the agency promoted him so much despite what a dickhead he was.

(Seriously, Eliot had sat in on a meeting with him and the god kept insisting on all party music be nothing but the _ Black Eyed-Peas _, for the whole of the next year, to bring them back to “relevancy.”

—He was a scourge and an embarrassment.)

That aside, the size of his future paycheck made Eliot vacillate between pride and shame. Between overwhelming joy of _ make there, make it anywhere _ and the sick hollow gutting of his Midwestern-Frugality-is-Virtue upbringing. And then maybe, he also felt a touch of actual uncomfortable ambiguity—of not knowing what the fuck he was going to do with any of it, of what it _ meant._

His inner turmoil had been enough to neglect mentioning the exact size of his upcoming yearly income to Quentin, who would definitely have… thoughts. Many, many thoughts. An exhausting amount of thoughts. He wouldn’t put it off forever, couldn’t put it off forever, but—

Maybe a little longer.

(Of course, Eliot _ had _ mentioned it to Bambi, who immediately jumped in the air, hugged him, and screamed, “Oh my god, I’m rich!”)

“Magicians operate in a different realm,” Eliot said lightly, knowing it answered zero if the questions posed. “It’s a totally different system that happens to coincide with the muggle one, and to our advantage. It’s fine.”

_ It’s fine. Please._

Eliot knew the guilt and the flashbacks and the self-loathing would kick in. They had already started, creeping deep in his psyche, taunting him cold with his failures. And he knew part of why he was in that ridiculous room was to try to overwrite all that, while he could. He could overwrite his pain, his guilt, his past—wannabe sugar daddies and cold beds and truth serum all—with a view at the top of the world, for the man who loved him, against all odds. 

And while they were there, tucked away in their own little world—which, yes, he knew was ludicrous and ostentatious and maybe genuinely criminally expensive. But while they were there, Eliot was also _ safe _ and far away from everything that was going to kick in, going to catch up with him. At least, for a little while.

For a little while, Eliot could just be, and be with Quentin too.

So he swallowed, tilting his eyes and pleading. _ It’s fine, please. _

Like he could read Eliot’s face with perfect fluency, Quentin let out a soft breath and clicked off his phone.

“Okay, Jesus, fuck, okay,” Q said, laying his palms flat on the fluffy blanket, taking another deep breath. Then he glanced sidelong at him, lips quirking. “Okay, this is fine, I get it. It’s a distraction—“ his eyes went gentle for a moment as he leaned up to kiss him “—and your money.”

“Glad you agree,” Eliot said with another small kiss to his lips. “Let’s indulge in our All-You-Can-Eat caviar then soon, hm?”

(It was an actual amenity.)

“First, gross,” Quentin said, holding his finger in the air. “Second, I do want to make the very quick point that when we share finances, you can’t do this kind of thing without talking to me about it.”

Eliot burst into a smile, blooming wildflowers. _ When, when, when_. “Understood.”

“No, uh-uh, _ no, _don’t look at me like that,” Q said, eyes too bright above his flat-lined mouth, giving him away like they always did. “That was supposed to be stern, not romantic.”

“It was stern _ and _ romantic,” Eliot said, tugging him closer and smiling wide. “Swoon.”

He literally swooned into Quentin’s chest, cheek flat against his heartbeat. It picked up gently, maybe playfully, as he felt lips press firm at the crown on his head.

“Jesus Christ,” Quentin grumbled into his curls, the slightest tinge of laughter in the gruff tone.

Eliot tipped his chin up at him and smiled. “You’re a good boyfriend.”

“I’m an indulgent boyfriend,” Q corrected, smoothing his hand over his curls. Eliot popped all the way up and kissed him as punishment for his cheek, then dragged him back down to his shoulder.

“Synonyms,” he said, kissing the very tip of Quentin’s nose. But then he sighed, the gurgle of confession strangling words out against his will. “... These sheets have 22-carat gold woven into the fabric.”

“_Oh my god, _Eliot.”

* * *

The day itself passed without much fanfare.

Eliot woke up early, but let Q sleep on him for a few hours, mouth soft against his chest. When Sleeping Beauty finally arose, they fucked slow and hushed, without a single word between them. Eliot savored his warm skin, the quick beat of his heart, the scratch of his stubble, the sweet relief of his catching breaths—he felt all of it, all around him, everywhere.

After, they stumbled out of bed, took a long shower, had a decadent room service breakfast (that, yes, involved comped sides of caviar.) Then they checked out of what Quentin had started to fondly and brattily call High King Eliot’s Distraction Palace, back to Brakebills.

And Q spent the rest of the day with Julia, per the custody arrangement.

It was fair. It was fine. Eliot was okay with it. 

Not only because that day had sucked for Julia as much as it sucked for him, but also because it meant he got to hole up with Margo. She plied him with with muggle THC, boatloads of gossip, and another rewatch of _ Never Been Kissed _, but this time with the appreciation it deserved. (“The things I would do to Michael Vartan cannot be legally categorized,” Bambi declared as they watched him ride on a romantic ferris wheel with someone he thought was his bullied underage student. Eliot agreed.)

But once nighttime rolled around and his nerves started acting up, Margo made him a potion for dreamless sleep and they cuddled in his bed. She whispered sweet things to him, nonsense things, and he fell into the void. Then, when Eliot woke up the next morning, Quentin was in her place. 

Anyway, that next day ended up being hard.

Really hard.

—Eliot-didn’t-want-to-talk-about-it kind of hard.

But the day after was a little better. Then the day after that was a little better than that. And the next, and the next, and the next.

They weren’t all better in a straight line. Sometimes everything stayed the same. Sometimes it got worse. Sometimes he forgot about it altogether. But he went to therapy and he worked on his thesis and he planned parties and he kept the gears moving. He processed, processed, _ processed. _Ever moving, ever changing, ever all the same. Ever getting better.

So before Eliot knew it, it was the day he had been planning all year. The most important event of his lifetime, if not the century itself.

—It was Bambi Thesis Day.

“I don’t want a fuss,” Margo had airily said, at the very beginning of the year. She waited perched on the kitchen counter for Eliot to finish making her coffee. “All I require is breakfast in bed served with a single stemmed red rose in a white bud vase, a picnic reception upon my glorious victory wherein I rub my superior magical adeptness in the panting faces of everyone who ever doubted me, and then a 75-to-100-person party at the Cottage with all my favorite music. Black tie, non-optional.”

“Uh, what exactly would a_ fuss _look like then?” Quentin had asked, adorably befuddled over his own mug of coffee. Eliot had grinned at him and laughed into his work, but didn’t say anything. Bambi had it handled.

“Oh, honey,” Margo had cooed, scooting over to bump her hip into his arm with a devious smile. “You’ll find out at Encanto Oculto.”

Quentin had rolled his eyes. “Yeah, except I’m not going to that.”

“You’re going and you’ll like it,” Eliot had shot back over his shoulder, right as Margo had scowled to say _ Yes, you fucking are, dickhole_. And Quentin had flipped them both off and Margo had laughed and it all felt like a million years ago, like a different lifetime.

Back then, Eliot had ignored him and gathered the delicate cup in his hands, the heat warming his palms. He brought it over to Margo with care and kissed her cheek. “Turkish coffee for my Bambi. And of course, I’ll deliver every wish you command.”

“I know you will, baby,” she said, pressing her cool hand to his cheek. “I’ll have extremely high expectations.”

“As I prefer,” Eliot had said happily. At her answering smile, he stroked his thumb on her tiny elbow before spinning around back to busy himself with something other than impending classwork. 

Meanwhile, Margo kept listing her elaborate demands—partially to tease Quentin and partially because Margo really _ did _ have high expectations––and Eliot always volleyed back with an even more extravagant counter. Because not even Ms. Hanson herself could outdo him in decadence.

(He also remembered how Quentin was _ looking _ at him, at Eliot-and-Bambi doing their pitter-patter back and forth, almost wistfully, almost softly, with the tiniest smile over the rim of his mug. At the time, his heart went stuttering and pained in his chest and he extinguished hope before the first light ignited. But now, looking back, well—

Eliot was trying to be better than his instincts, while also trusting them more.)

In the present, The Day was going off without a hitch.

He had burst into Margo’s room at the crack of dawn, blithely ignoring Julia’s grumpy _ Fucking seriously, dude? _ to telekinetically lay out a platter for both of them, surrounded by glowing magic candlelight, warming the sweet and adorable room with a prism of vivid colors, courtesy of an Alice Quinn charm.

The serving tray and candlesticks were ornate carved silver, and the room filled with their favorite foods and several types of specialty mimosas, as well as the requested single red rose. While he was setting up, Margo slept like the dead and so she didn’t stir, just as Eliot hoped. With a final flourish of delights, he raised his eyebrows once at Julia and bowed, finger to his lips as he backed out the door. 

But Julia had let out a quick _ Psst _ between her teeth before he ducked away, capturing his attention for a moment longer.

“This is nice,” Julia whispered at him over her trademarked tiny smile. Then she threw a pillow at his chest. “But give a girl some warning next time.”

Eliot rolled his eyes. “Fine.” Then he pursed his lips. “Don’t let her drink more than two of the mimosas. They’re strong.”

“Don’t _ let _ her?” Julia laughed silently and offered a snarky thumbs up. “Sure.”

“Well, make sure she knows they’re strong,” Eliot hissed back, hands on his hips. “They’re_ really _ strong.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t have put so much alcohol in them then.”

“You of all people should respect my dedication to the pursuit of—”

“Oh my god, El,” Margo grumbled from under her mess of hair into her pillow. “Go the fuck away.”

At that, Julia bit her lip and coughed back a laugh, eyes glittering as she looked around at all of the efforts put forth, which had been summarily dismissed for more sleep. She mouthed _ Sorry,_ wincing her lip down and pressing her laughing mouth into Bambi’s grumpy shoulder. But he just shrugged—used to it—and winked at the growing adoration over Julia’s soft face, as she ran her fingernails down the slender back beside her, lips tilting into something private and sacred. 

Then Eliot went the fuck away. 

Thesis defenses at Brakebills were closed door affairs, so no one actually got to witness Margo’s certain triumph. But she had no problem regaling them with the tale, in varying styles and dramatics, as they all finally laid out on the picnic blanket later that afternoon, magic sun warming their faces.

“—and then Fogg caught his breath to say, _ Margo—may I call you Margo? _ ” Bambi said, in deep baritone, before arching a brow. “And I declined, so he said, _ Ms. Hanson, that was the single greatest feat of magic I have seen in my entire career. My work is complete _.”

That tracked.

Eliot nodded, despite the incredulous snort from Quentin, who was already neck deep in the cheese plate without glancing up. At the same time, Julia pressed her lips closed into the world’s fondest smile, stroking Margo’s hair and tugging her head in her lap.

“You are so full of shit,” she murmured down into Bambi’s forehead, in that usual way of hers that always sounded suspiciously like _ I love you. _Eliot glanced away with a smile of his own, heart warming at the recognition of it.

“Prove it,” Margo drawled lazily, snuggling into her girlfriend’s stomach. “Anyway, I guess you could say it went okay.”

But from the other side of the blanket, Alice tucked her legs under her skirt and bit her lip, frowning. “So the committee didn’t have any questions about the application of cryomantic properties to metaphysical bridges?”

Maybe only Eliot caught it, but Bambi’s brow darkened. “No, they did.” She paused and smirked, slightly strained. “I kicked that question’s ass though. End of story.”

“Oh, how?” Alice perked up, not reading the room. Or the way Margo literally said _ end of story_. “Because when I saw your trial practicum and notes, I was mostly impressed, but that detail seemed like a potential paradox. So I wasn’t sure how—“

“Alice, darling,” Eliot said, gently cutting her the fuck off. Bambi was tired and drained. And definitely caught that _mostly. _Dangerous territory. “Would you be an absolute love and pour the champagne for everyone? I realized we haven’t toasted yet and that’s unacceptable.”

Alice glared at both his interruption and implication for a moment. But then she gave a curt nod, tutting an obnoxiously quick series of telekinesis enchantments. In a shock of seconds, they all had filled champagne flutes in their hands.

“Holy shit,” Quentin said, startling back to earth as his hand clasped around the unexpected stem. Obviously, he splashed the fizzing drink behind him, but Eliot caught it with his mind and returned it to its rightful place. He received a quick perfect grin of thanks for his effort, and all was well.

Then once each of them had their glasses steady in their hands, Eliot cleared his throat and held his glass up—

And let out a sigh, turning to look at Julia.

“We don’t have all day, Wicker,” Eliot said, letting only the faintest of smiles rest on his face. “Say your bit so we can drink.”

If Julia was surprised at his magnamity, she didn’t let on. Instead, she sat up tall and held the flute high above her head and smiled wide.

“To the baddest of bitches making a mockery of the ordinary,” Julia said, full-hearted and clear. “And to Henry Fogg’s retirement to a remote region of the Himalayas. May he live out his days shamed by Margo’s glory.”

“Jesus,” Bambi said, eyebrows appearing over her sunglasses, grin bright as the sun they blocked. She took a ginger sip of her drink. “Suck my tits for them, why don’t you?”

“Cheers!” Alice squeaked, downing her glass with pink stained cheeks. Margo smirked.

Meanwhile, Quentin clinked the rest of the glasses with his usual perfect wry smile, taking a small sip and placing his glass on top of one of his random, discarded books. It still almost fell over, so Julia kicked at Q’s happy ankle and kept stroking Margo’s hair and Eliot—

Eliot swallowed an unexpected lump in his throat and blinked his blurry eyes.

“Cheers,” he said quietly, finishing his glass in one gulp too, though for very different reasons than Alice. Then he reached over and pulled Quentin into him, finding equilibrium in the scent of his hair.

Eliot was a lucky man, in many ways.

“Gotta say, it’s nice that you two are getting along now,” Quentin said in his painfully honest way, settling his back against Eliot’s chest. “Or that you’re not, like, ready to fucking kill each other.”

“Aw, I thought our thing was more, you know, the long, cold winter freeze,” Julia said thoughtfully, tipping her glass back into her mouth. “The vast and unreachable arctic.”

“To global warming,” Eliot said, lifting his glass again. Julia grinned and clinked her glass to his, while Alice muttered, _ You shouldn’t joke about that, it’s a catastrophe. _ She was lovely and strange.

“Well, I’m not a fan,” Margo said, sitting up to twitch her pointer finger between Eliot and Julia. “You gotta think bigger, Q. This is gonna be used against us. We need to organize.”

A dark rain cloud passed over the picnic, bringing with it a howling wind.

“Maybe you two could have another slumber party,” Eliot said tightly, clenching his jaw. “Without me.”

Quentin threw his hands up, not even giving him the courtesy of looking him in the eyes. “Oh my god, can you please let that go?”

“Never,” Eliot snapped, a promise and a threat. But his indignation only provoked Margo to slither toward him on hands and knees, biting smile at the ready. She cuddled in on Eliot’s opposite side, winding his arm around her waist.

“No, it’s a great idea, Q,” Bambi said, tapping her chin, voice taking on a sweet and delicate quality. “We could kick El out, cold on his ass, and then give each other manicures…” She smiled. “Rank the whole Cottage by fuckability…” She winked. “Play Truth or Dare…” She pouted. “And, like, kiss a little.”

With a dazzling giggle, Margo nuzzled her nose forward into Quentin’s shoulder, pulling out nothing but a gruff, “Jesus Christ.”

“I am so good to you,” Eliot said, blinking down at her with his best performance of hurt and sorrow. “Yet you are so cruel to me.”

“Aw,” Margo said, running her hand down his face, pouting her smile. “You like it.”

Eliot bit at her lower lip with a grin. “I do.”

At that, Quentin tilted his head back into the crook of Eliot’s shoulder, long soft hair tickling his neck. He lodged a heavy sigh and closed his eyes, smirk on his lips. “You two are ridiculous.”

Bambi smacked his folded arms. “_You’re _ ridiculous.”

“No,” Q said, brow pinching and lips spasming. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Fuck you, Quentin, you’re—“

“So Alice,” Julia said, perky and changing the damn subject, spinning over on her ass. “Did you get a chance to read that book on reverse temporal energy I told you about?”

“No, I didn’t read it,” Alice said, frowning. Then she snorted a dorky laugh and pressed her hands on the blanket, eyes alive. “I _ devoured _ it.”

Thus, the conversation turned to easy white noise, with Quentin and Margo undeterred in their eloquent back and forth (“You put the dick in ridiculous, Coldwater,”) while Julia and Alice geeked the fuck out over some theoretical nonsense that had apparently _ not only challenged but revolutionized all [their] preconceived understandings of the topic_. And Eliot let it all wash his thoughts away, like a tide, face turned to the warming light.

—He may have taken a small cat nap for how the words and laughter blended together under the steady weight of his two constants.

But then the bushes behind them rattled, and a new figure popped through the hedges, all black curls and ripped jeans and bright red lips. At the spontaneous appearance of Kady Orloff-Diaz, Julia’s face did something surely similar to Eliot’s. Her features froze, locked in automatic fear, before slowly melting into tentative acceptance. After another long moment, Julia pressed her lips together and smiled, a little tight. Then she looked down at her hands, studious and still. 

She was his mirror.

Alice, on the other hand, lit up like a fucking sparkler. “Kady!”

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” Kady said, holding one hand up. She turned her gaze down to Alice, exasperated. “I’ve been texting you.”

Alice rolled her eyes so quickly it sent a blinding glint off her glasses. “You know we’re not allowed to use phones on school property.”

_ Jesus Christ. _

“I guess technically?” Kady crossed her arms and tilted her head, eyes narrowed. “But literally no one follows that rule, Blondie.”

“Nerds follow that rule,” Margo said with a bored yawn, not even bothering to turn her head toward Kady. “You’re officially the caretaker of your very own. Welcome to the club.”

“Yeah, no, uh, Margo’s right,” Quentin said, trying to sit up despite Eliot’s strong arm keeping him firmly in place. “Not about the nerd part—” Bambi snorted “—but really, people do follow that rule for a reason. Cell phone use fucks with the magic.”

Alice nodded resolutely, agreeing. “It causes interference.”

“Wait,” Julia said, face faltering as she cast her dark eyes at Margo. “Are you implying that _ I _ am _ your _ so-called ‘nerd?’”

“Aw, baby,” was all Margo said, before she shimmied her shoulders back into Eliot and zoned out. Her Majesty had made her address and would accept no commentary.

“Okay, yeah, but it, like, _ barely _ messes with the magic,” Kady said, scrunching her nose and still stuck on the logistics. “It's the same as using your phone on a plane. Maybe if we _ all _ did it, _ all _at the same time, with the exact right circumstances—“

“Also sorry to interrupt,” Eliot said, casting amused eyes up at her. “But I can tell you from firsthand experience, that argument is going to fall on deaf ears.”

“It’s not deaf ears,” Quentin said, hands splaying out wide as his eyes, “it’s that it’s, uh, more nuanced than you want to admit and—“

“Want a drink?” Eliot asked Kady blithely. He swept his hand out over the spread and indicated the spare pillow next to Alice. “You’ll need it if you’re going to engage in this particular conversation.”

“Only because Quentin’s right,” Alice argued fiercely. “It _ is _ more nuanced—”

“Yeah, you know what?” Kady said, plopping down and popping her eyes wide at Eliot. “I’ll take you up on that, Waugh.”

“Excellent choice,” he said with a wink, passing her a flute with only slightly shaky hands. Quentin and Alice exchanged exasperated looks, their adorable and severe solidarity bonding for them life.

Good for them.

But across the blanket, Julia blanched and pressed her lips together even firmer. She ticked her head, a twitch of irritation and doubt.

“Oh, wow,” she said, pulling her arms into her chest. “Okay. I guess this is—”

Quentin sat up and shot Julia an intensely indecipherable look, which she returned with something fiercely inscrutable. Blah, blah, blah. It went on for its usual awkward amount of time, so everyone else just ate and drank like it wasn’t happening. But finally, as always, it eased into neutrality—and Julia sighed, opting to ignore Kady than engage.

(A reasonable enough decision.)

But Quentin took the opposite tack, also reasonable. “Kady, I have one for you.”

“Hit me,” she said with a knowing smirk, taking a preparatory sip of her champagne. 

Q sat up taller and rubbed his hands together, gleeful and perfect and adorable. “What is the most common recurrent digit between 1 and 1000, and what is the least common?”

Eliot wanted to give him _ everything _ the world had to offer.

“That’s not a riddle, Q,” he said, brushing his hair to the side and placing a kiss on the slope of his neck. “That’s just math.”

Quentin turned around and frowned, “Math is both its own riddle and its own answer, El. That’s the inherent thrill of it.”

Eliot wanted to kiss every inch of his skin, spectators be damned.

“You are very lucky you’re pretty,” he purred hot in his ear, relishing the shiver that went through Quentin’s body, the way the hair on his wrists stood on end. God, maybe they could duck out a little early, so they had time before Margo’s big party, so they could get all their very silly clothes off and—

Kady cleared her throat pointedly. “Inclusive?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Q said, jumping and tucking his hair behind his ears. Eliot smirked into the side of his head. “Definitely inclusive.”

She nodded intently and started to reach into her purse. “Can I use paper?”

“I mean, I guess,” Quentin snorted, a little shit. “If you must.”

Kady glared, snatching her hand out of her bag and crossing her arms. She stared into space, calculations crossing over her bright green eyes. As she did, Margo came back to life and curled over Eliot’s lap, to smile beatifically up at Q.

“Hey Quentin, while she thinks,” Bambi said with a shark smile, “I have a really good riddle for you too.”

Quentin didn’t look at her. “Fuck you.”

“It’s so good,” she murmured, dancing her fingertips toward his knee. “I think you’ll really like it.”

“I said fuck you,” he repeated, finally blazing his lamb eyes over at her.

“Wow,” Margo said, sitting up and giving him a Most Serious look. “Here I am, trying to engage, trying to join in my dear friend’s interest, trying to connect with you human to human—“

Quentin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Just tell your goddamn joke, Margo.”

“Admit there’s a part of you that’s worried I’m serious,” she said, poking his arm with a grin, “and you’re feeling preemptively guilty for that.”

“Obviously,” Q sighed, flopping back against Eliot with a frown. Eliot tightened his grip around his waist, letting his thumb stroke softly under his shirt. A gentle grounding touch, that was all.

Taking that as acceptance, Margo sniffed her sunglasses off and sat up brightly, all academia. “_I go in hard but I come out soft, and I like when you blow me. What am I?”_

Quentin jolted up excitedly despite himself. “Oh, uh, yeah, that’s a classic. It’s bubble gum.”

“No, you virgin,” Bambi said slowly, low and silky as her growing smile. “It’s a dick.”

“Um, fuck you,” Q shot back, finger pointing right in her happy face. “Eliot and I fuck, like, all the time.”

Eliot dragged his fingers down Q’s hair, soft and light. “My sweet poetic prince.”

“I haven’t seen it,” Bambi said as a challenge, lifting an unamused brow.

“That is her one and only bar,” Eliot confirmed to a sputtering Q, solemn and definitely not teasing at all, not even a little.

“Stop being a cock, Coldwater,” Bambi said, hands on her hips, “and let me watch.”

“Uh—“ Q started to say, but he was cut off from another voice across the blanket.

“_Um,” _Julia said, lifting her head from her ongoing geek session with Alice to frown, “yellow light.”

Margo threw her hands up and glared backwards at her girlfriend, “I would just _ watch._”

“Yellow light,” Julia repeated, all the more emphatic, to the immediate protest from Bambi. They bickered en sotto voce, half-serious and half-foreplay of their own.

And as Margo scowled and Julia made gentle _ There, there _ soothing sounds, Eliot quirked a quiet brow over at Q, who shrugged and bobbed his head back and forth with a thoughtful look on his face. It was as clear and interested a _ Maybe _ as he had ever seen.

Fucking noted.

“Can we change the subject please?” Alice asked, cheeks pink. Beside her, Kady barely blinked out of her concentration but Julia nodded, pouring more champagne.

“Fine, we’ll keep it prude-friendly,” Margo said lightly, meaning it in the best way even if Alice’s face darkened at the wording. “So, like, who wants to talk about ponies and shit?”

—Eventually those two would be on the same team. Eliot could just _ feel _ it.

No one talked about ponies, even though Alice did mention something about the wild ones on Assateague Island, as a “joking” fun fact. Instead, the conversation turned honey-drip slow and gossipy, flowing around the blanket without much rhythm. Eventually, Julia hooked her foot under Q’s knee and tugged him toward her and even more eventually, Alice took Q’s place, scooting over to sit next to Eliot with a cheerful smile as her girlfriend kept ignoring her in favor of math.

Poor thing. Eliot knew exactly how that felt.

Over a happy sip of her fourth glass of champagne, Alice swayed into him. “What would you like to do to celebrate your thesis defense next week, Eliot?”

“Absolutely nothing,” he answered honestly, brushing a stray strand of gold from off her nose. “No acknowledgement would be grand.”

There were a lot of things worth celebrating at the end of his Brakebills career, from the personal to the magical. But his bullshit sleep-written thesis about how telekinesis could make alcohol stronger was definitely not one of them. Eliot would pass with flying colors and then never think about it again.

Know thyself. Et cetera.

“But it’s a big deal,” Alice insisted sweetly, blue eyes clear and bright despite her increasing tipsiness. She gasped then, gripping his forearm with a happy grin. “Ooh, Quentin and I could plan a party for you.”

Eliot let his eyes widen for half a second before softening, running his thumb along the line of her stunning jaw.

“That’s a nice idea, Alice,” he said quietly, chucking her under the chin with an affectionate knuckle. She beamed up at him so endearingly that he almost felt bad for the wicked grin that took over his face. 

Almost.

“... Based, of course, entirely in my morbid curiosity,” Eliot finished, biting the words out with a grin. Because he would fucking _ pay _ to see the results of a goddamn Alice-and-Q planned event, holy shit.

“I’m a fun person!” Alice protested, arms crossed huffily over her chest. “So is Quentin.” But then she paused, biting her lip. “Or he must be, if he’s dating you.”

Eliot snorted. “Yes, deep down, he’s my little fount of frivolity.”

“So let us do it,” Alice said as she excitedly patted his leg, her sarcasm meter set to zero. She hiccuped. “We’ll make it an Eliot Extravaganza.”

He felt her adorable alliteration down to his toes. So he slung his arm around her pink-clad shoulders and kissed her forehead once, to show his affection, to make sure she knew. She leaned into him, happy and sweet. All was well.

Satisfied, Eliot smiled down at her with a waggish wink, ready to prove a point.

“Hold that thought for one moment,” he murmured into her hair, before angling his head toward Margo, who had joined Q and Julia in a perfect triumvirate. “Bambi dearest, Alice and Q are going to throw my thesis party together, alright?”

Quentin shot his head up from his plate, a bit of jam hanging from the corner of his mouth. “Wait, what the _ fuck?_”

“Like _ fuck _ they are,” Margo said fiercely, their two _ fucks _ harmonizing in time. She glared at Alice. “Excuse you, but I have a legacy to uphold, Elsa.”

Kady broke from her stupor to speak for the first time, coolly pursing her lips. “Yeah, her name is Alice.”

“It’s a term of endearment, chill,” Margo said, waving her hand as she rolled her eyes. Then she snarled, facing Alice with all the ferocity in her soul. “I will gouge your pretty little eyes out if you so much as make a fucking playlist, do you understand me?”

Alice rolled her eyes right back. “That’s not an overreaction or anything.”

“You’re right,” Margo agreed bright as death. “It’s an _ under_reaction.”

“Uh, no one said shit to me about a party,” Quentin interjected, hands up as though the cops had him surrounded. “Like, for the record.”

(Eliot loved him so much.)

Alice folded her arms, not backing down from Margo. “I want to contribute.”

“Fine,” Bambi said breathily, looking Alice up and down from over her sneering nose. “What theme would you choose?”

Alice considered the question for a few long moments, before snapping her fingers. “A costume party. Movies from the 1980s.”

Bambi thunked forward into her own lap, curled hair splaying everywhere.

“Wrong,” she moaned, shaking her head in her arms. “Oh my god, so wrong. Jesus.”

“Eliot loves costumes and movies _ and _the 1980s,” Alice argued accurately, spitting fire. She arched her brow and sniffed. “I feel like you would have reacted like that to any of my suggestions.”

Margo didn’t lift her head, but instead pointed her arm straight out, index finger sharp and deadly. “Take your nonsense out with the rest of the trash and talk to me when you’re ready to be serious.”

“Someone please clarify if I have to plan a party,” Quentin insisted, meeting Eliot’s eyes with a panicked pleaded. And Eliot was evil, so he just shrugged impassively.

It didn’t kill him to stew a little.

“I mean,” Julia said with a wince, scrunching her nose delicately, “you_ are _ his boyfriend.”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheeks and shook his head, finger wagging all about. “Yeah, but, no, like, we both bring our own shit to the table, right? And that is not my shit.”

“Pussy up, Q,” Margo said, flinging her head back and letting her curls cascade around her shoulders. “You should have been planning for weeks, honestly.”

Quentin went bright red and set his mouth into determination, “No, but like, no one _ told me _ so—”

Kady pumped her fist into the air and laughed, giddy. “One and zero, respectively!” At everyone’s baffled attention, she shrugged. “What? Those are the answers.”

As everyone’s chatter reached a zippy and clattering din, Eliot chuckled and tugged a pouting Alice into his side.

“Bambi’s word is law,” he said upfront because, well, it was true. Still, he smiled genuinely. “But I think your idea sounded nice.”

Alice pinched her lips and shook out her shoulders. Then with all the dignity in the world, she held her head high. “It would be silly and sweet, which are the best possible party themes.”

Eliot huffed a laugh, running his hands through her hair, lightly enough that she could pull away if she wanted. He was heartened when she didn’t and rested his cheek on top of her head. And in truth, when it came to her party philosophy, he really neither agreed nor disagreed.

—Well, okay, no, he disagreed.

But what really mattered about her idea was one thing and one thing only.

“You and I would make a _ killer _ Baby and Johnny,” Eliot said, ducking his head to her ear, speaking truth to light. He waggled his eyebrows as Alice pulled away, a mix of delight and surprise playing all over her features.

But then her face fell.

She looked frightened, eyes going wide and glassy, and concern rippled under Eliot’s skin. He reached out to her, not sure what he had said wrong, just as she stammered her mouth open, shuddering under his gaze.

Alice blinked. “I carried a watermelon.”

Then Her pretty face erupted into giggles, laughing hands spilling the last of her champagne into the grass without a care. And a bright current bubbled laughter out of Eliot’s chest, sounding like a clear bell, adoring and cheerful and light.

And then Quentin hopped on his knees and told another convoluted riddle for any takers to his beautiful mind and his infectious enthusiasm, and Margo kissed Julia and shot Eliot a wink when the corner of their eyes met. And Kady held Alice’s hand and Julia teased Q and all their voices hummed like a melody, soothing and bright to the soul. And the distant call of birds fluttered and vibrated against the edge of the Brakebills wards, the strong hint of nature held back by no magic. The sun dimmed to a pink and blue watercolor over the green horizon of trees, readying for evening and night, and the promise of tomorrow. 

And as time ticked its merry way by, laughter and kinship and joy—_unadulterated joy—_filled Eliot’s lungs, toppling from the brim, uninvited yet welcome all the same.

* * *

fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it’s done! Holy shit. This was a total surprise labor of love and I can’t thank you enough for sticking with me through the current LONGEST fic in the fandom. If someone had told me that’s what this story would be when I first started writing it, I never would have believed them. But Eliot and Alice got their way. :)
> 
> It’s been an incredible ride and I’ve appreciated every single comment, kudos, and/or hit on this big ol’ behemoth more than I can say. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love this fandom so much and I’m so grateful to everyone who is part of it, old and new.
> 
> With that being said, I’m not going anywhere! I’m walking through the clock for my next big project, which is a Queliot arranged marriage AU. Nichey passion projects, FTW. Also, I have some-if-not-quite-as-immediate plans to return to the Something Good universe and about, oh, a thousand other ideas I'd like to see play out. So I'll be here to do my small part to help keep hope and Q alive in 2020.
> 
> Maybe I’ll see you in Fillory. <3
> 
> Love,  
Harriet
> 
> P.S. I’m on Tumblr @HMGFanfic, where I look like an obsessive, re: The Magicians and fanfiction, because I am. Come obsess with me!


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